by Trevor Wyatt
I turn to flash him one of my deadliest glares.
“Your team just assaulted an innocent woman on Terran Union soil. I’ll have your asses!”
Then, I spit in his face.
He doubles back, anger fleeting across his face. I can see that he wants to clap back at me, but he hesitates and pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his face instead.
“You’re many things, woman,” the man says, “but you and I know that innocent isn’t one of those things.”
The moment he walks out, I relax with a soft exhalation.
The effects of the narcotic agent working in my blood begin to lull me to sleep. I doze off a couple of times until another man enters the interrogation room.
This man is a smartly dressed officer of the Terran Armada, wearing a clean white ceremonial garbs.
I look at his face and my heart skips a beat.
He smiles warmly at me, the very air of his presence causing the hairs on my nape to stand on end.
“Captain,” I say, reverence filling my voice end to end.
“Commander,” the man replies with a curt nod. He looks from me to the glass window to the splutter of blood trailing the ground.
“Rest assured, I will have those marines court-martialed.” he says.
“That won’t be necessary, sir,” I reply. “They were only doing their job.”
“Like you, I guess,” he says.
I’m about to reply in the affirmative, before I catch my tongue.
I smile.
He smiles back. He’s as handsome as the stories go. His soft features are nothing to match his nerve-of-steel reputation.
He sits on the chair.
“In case you’re wondering, I’m here for the summit, but then I was called due to a security breach. Then the bomb that just went off in the south tunnels. Right as soon as Armada Intelligence informed me they had a high value defector heading to The Seeker for immediate shuttle to Earth. Imagine my surprise when I’m informed immediately after that by the Terran Armada that one of the leaders of the terrorists responsible is a highly-decorated intelligence officer.”
I don’t reply. I merely keep my gaze straight. I know my mission is off the books. This means I can actually go to jail.
And the bomb went off, so I probably am really going to jail. After all, I did help terrorists gain access to the Terran Armada Administrative Building.
“So,” Captain Montgomery says. “Are you ready to talk?”
Jeryl
As I walk to the holding cell of Anika Grayson, I realize that I'm pissed.
Pissed and puzzled.
When I got the message that my presence was requested I took the liberty of perusing the prisoner's service record—well, the few sections that weren’t confidential anyway.
And I'm puzzled. Ms. Grayson has clearly been an asset to Terran Armada for years.
In fact, the oddest part is that apparently six months ago, she uncovered a plot by Pro-Ascension Sonali to frame Terrans for an assassination of one of their leaders. It sounds like that was one class-A cluster fuck.
I see a few notations about disciplinary action taken due to "overzealous" conduct. To some, that might raise a red flag or two but not to me.
The war may be over, but now I find myself navigating the equally dangerous waters of diplomacy.
And in both circumstances I've found that making "the right" decision is not as black and white as most people would like to believe.
No, I've been through too much, made too many bad calls myself to judge someone else for making poor decisions.
Besides, something doesn't smell right about this. How do you go from a dedicated Terran agent to a traitor in a few short months?
No, I'm not buying it; I call bullshit.
The deadly attack in the lobby and the bomb blast in the tunnels is now being treated like an act of war.
But something else is going on here, something just under the surface. Call it a hunch, but I have a feeling there is going to be more than meets the eye and Ms. Grayson is involved.
I'm two steps away from entering the prison block when my irritation flares again. I'm here for the Summit but I'm getting called over to look into today’s attack. I'm not sure what they expect by sending me here, but as the "Avenger of the Mariner," I'm the new mascot of the Terran Armada.
I heave a sigh.
So, my "job" is likely to make an appearance so that security can say they were visited by the Great Captain Jeryl Montgomery. Well, let's show them what this figurehead can do.
I take the last two steps bringing me inside the security room where the prisoner is being held.
There was a headshot of Ms. Anika Grayson in her file; however, seeing her in the flesh takes me off guard. She's beautiful, but that's not what gets me. It's her eyes.
They watch me with predatory calculation.
She's not scared. Not even a bit nervous.
Most people in interrogation would be fidgeting, worried, stressed. She's not even breaking a sweat.
What I'm seeing tells me there’s a lot more to Ms. Grayson and the reason why she's here.
I approach the cell.
“Captain,” she says as she sees me walk in.
“Commander,” I reply, looking around the room and cocking one eyebrow at the trail of blood I see on the floor. “Rest assured, I will have those marines court-martialed.”
“That won’t be necessary, sir. They were only doing their job.”
“Like you, I guess.” I let my words sink in before I continue. “In case you’re wondering, I’m here for the summit, but then I was called due to a security breach. Then the bomb that just went off in the south tunnels. Right as soon as Armada Intelligence informed me they had a high value defector heading to The Seeker for immediate shuttle to Earth. Imagine my surprise when I’m informed immediately after that by the Terran Armada that one of the leaders of the terrorists responsible is a highly-decorated intelligence officer. So…are you ready to talk?”
Silence.
"Ms. Grayson," I continue after a long silence, "As much as I'd love to crack a joke about a girl like you in a place like this, I think I should skip the banter and just get straight to it, don’t you agree? It’ll be easier for both of us."
She nods.
"Good, so may I ask why a decorated Terran officer—one who was a hero on Sonali Prime a mere six months ago—suddenly turns into a traitor?"
"Money," she says like it's a punchline to a joke. But I'm not laughing.
"Money?" I ask, arching a bow.
"Yeah," she says in a disinterested drawl, "is there a better reason?"
"Armada not paying you enough?"
"No, not really."
She puts her knees up, circling them with her arms. As I watch, she lays her head sideways on the crook of her arms. She closes her eyes.
I can't believe it!
Except that I think this is all part of her act. Her cover. She needs to play the role of the disinterested traitor, too mixed up in her own avarice to care what anyone thinks.
"So, what are the Tyressians paying you?"
She opens her eyes and sits up.
"Enough," she says, smirking. "Plus a bonus if I finish early, but looks like that part isn't going to happen."
She puffs, blowing a bit of hair from her face. Then, she resumes her position with her head on her hands. Her eyes close.
"Thirty," I say without preamble, my tone grim.
"What?"
"Ten Sonali. Seven Kurta. Three Drupadi. Ten Humans. All dead. All shot by your Separatist friend." I say, letting the moment hang.
"Is that supposed to mean something to me? Am I supposed to be sad?" She mocks.
But underneath her facade I see something that doesn't match her words.
Regret. Remorse.
She's a killer, I think, but then so am I. And even a seasoned killer can have regrets. I know this too well.
"No," I say, "Not sad—responsible."
/>
I put on my best "dad's mad" disappointed face—and it works. She looks uncomfortable.
"I didn't pull the trigger, that wasn't part of the plan," she says, "It's not my fault that my associates got overzealous."
"Causalities of war?" I ask, brows up.
"More like the cost of doing business."
She smiles a cruel smile.
"And it's always nice when someone else pays."
My anger goes nuclear. Time to play dirty.
"I don't have children," I say, "Even if Ashley and I wanted kids, I don't know that we have time. We barely see each other as it is..."
"That's a beautiful story," she says to me and made fake snoring noises.
I take my personal tablet, which what I sometimes refer to as my "leash," given how it mostly seems like it’s used by Terran Armada to keep tabs on me. I tap on the screen until I'm satisfied. Then I hold it up so Anika can see it.
"Do you know who this is?' I hold the tablet eye level with her. The image on the screen is a young Sonali girl.
"Should I?" says Anika.
"No," I say lowering the tablet, "I don't think there's any reason for you to know her, but I thought you should. She's an orphan. Her mother died in the war and her father died—today."
Her eyes are wary, guarded, but there's a flicker she can't conceal.
"I thought you might relate to a young woman losing both of her parents, tragically and unnecessarily, at a young age," I comment casually.
Her gaze turns inward, contemplating the little girl's loss as she remembers her own. As I watch, she notices me and shrugs off this sorrow to transform back into character.
"Thanks for sharing," she smiles, baring teeth.
"But I think the real question is why is a big-time planetary hero here, dealing with me? I don't think security is short of personnel. So how exactly did you get this shit detail?"
"You must have a low regard for your self-worth," I quip.
"No," she smiles, "I just know that there has to be more pressing duties for Captain Montgomery—the war hero."
I do my best not to flinch when she says that. I'm not sure I'll ever been 100% comfortable with the idea of being a "hero" especially of the war. But here I am.
"You're right, I'm not sure why my expertise is needed. But I'm here, and regardless of what brought me here, I have a job. I wish you would trust me, Anika.”
I say, letting the weight of my sincerity shade my tone.
"Why don't you tell me what's really going on? I can protect you."
My eyes plead with her.
"Do I look like I need protection?" she scoffs.
"No," I say seriously. "But that doesn't mean you’re impervious to getting stuck in a shitty situation. We both know you're not a traitor."
My eyes hold hers. Neither of us blinks.
My tablet pings interrupting our face-off. I'm notified that the interrogator is on his way.
Shit, I'm out of time.
Anika looks like she's shaken off anything I was starting to tap into emotionally. Back in place is her cold, surly traitor persona. I don't think I could convince anyone else, even with my clout that she's legit, but I know I'm right.
The interrogator returns. He stops and salutes. "Captain Montgomery, sir."
I salute back. "At ease."
"I hope the prisoner has not troubled you, sir."
"No," I answer truthfully, "Though unfortunately, she refused to cooperate."
He nods like that doesn't surprise him.
"Well, we'll see how long she stays that way," he says smugly. For the first time, I notice the silver and black case he's carrying in his left hand. This isn’t going to be pretty.
As though reading my mind, he says, "Are you staying, sir?"
I nod.
I have a feeling this makes him a bit uncomfortable, but if it does, he covers it well. I watch as he instructs Anika to stand away from the force field as he deactivates it.
She turns around, face pressed against the wall as he puts the force field back on. He turns her around, yanking her down to a sitting position. He secures the cuffs on her wrists with magnetic locks. He locks her legs down too.
I'm impressed—he’s not taking any chances. Given what I've seen of her abilities as far as kicking ass, I think he's making wise choices.
Anika looks like a woman steeling herself to face a death squad. She's probably readying her body and mind for the interrogation. Torture is illegal, but we both know that the Armada sometimes rely on unsavory members from Intelligence to get to the bottom of things.
Doubt surfaces in my mind; am I really going to be able to stomach watching her tortured— especially when I'd swear on my life that she's innocent?
No One
If someone asked me if I wanted to meet Captain Jeryl Montgomery, savior of the war, I would probably say yes. If they asked me how I’d like to meet him, I think I'd say over drinks or such.
What I wouldn’t say is "locked in a cell, cuffed and accused of being a traitor to the Terran Armada."
Nope, pretty sure that wouldn’t be on the list.
Unfortunately, life, as usual, has different plans for me. But though the circumstances are not ideal, I have to admit that I'm glad we met. I believe I'm a good judge of character. If not, I don't think I'd still be alive in my line of work.
My first impressions of Captain Montgomery are good ones. He's intelligent and clearly a man with a moral code. But I sense doubt and remorse too—a struggle within him. I don't want to, but I guess I could say that I can relate. Half of the time it seems we're all just trying to do the best we can to make the "right"
decisions.
Weary. That's another adjective I'd use to describe him. He's a man carrying a lot around—and it shows.
Despite my respect and empathy, I don't reveal my real mission. He may be a good guy, but I still just met him. Trust is earned, so
I keep my mouth shut about what's actually going on—making sure my "traitor" mask stays in place.
I'm feeling okay about keeping him in the dark—but then the interrogator comes back.
He’s holding a black and silver case I’m absolutely familiar with.
Well, shit. It’s the torture case.
I know I'll be able to handle whatever he dishes out; I've been trained to withstand pain. Also, my nanites are programmed to react to extreme duress by dumping drugs into my system to keep me happy and pain-free. I'll sweat a lot, but the pain will be manageable allowing me to focus.
My only regret is that it looks like Captain Montgomery is staying for the show.
It's silly, but somehow this embarrasses me. Like if Captain Montgomery found me puking in the bathroom…somehow, it feels the same.
But it's not like I have any choice.
Hey Mr. Torturer, do you mind coming back later? I know you need my secrets, but I fucking hate having an audience with the Avenger of the Mariner.
I almost start giggling at that thought. I must not be able to hide all of my amusement because the interrogator gives me a look.
"You won't be smiling for long, sweetheart," he says.
Now I really want to giggle, but instead I keep my lips sealed.
Nope, no talking. He's wrong. I'm wrong.
I do have a choice, based on about two and half inches of sharp metal tucked into my left fist. He may have locked down my wrist cuffs, but he did not check my hands. Bad move on his part.
I watch Mr. Torturer turn sideways away from me as he carefully, almost lovingly removes items from his briefcase. My guts squirm a bit. This guy seems like he really enjoys his job.
Time to get to work before he finishes unpacking.
My wrists are bound, but my fingers are free. Carefully, I grip the metal pin with my fingers, then bend my wrist inward until the point makes contact with my skin.
I sneak a glance. Neither Captain Montgomery nor Mr. Torture are looking my way.
The former is looking at his tabl
et. I have a feeling he's using it as an excuse to not see me.
Showtime.
I suck in a breath to steady myself. I have one chance.
I jab the pointed end of metal into deep into my wrist. I clamp my jaw shut so I don't scream. I think I hit a vein.
Good.
I’m rewarded with some nice red blood. It doesn't gush, but it does well up nicely until physics makes it start plopping on my leg. I try to whip my hand toward my other side to get some blood on that hand as well.
Thank goodness for my nanites—they've dulled the pain. But not my senses.
"Hey, Mr. Interrogator. I don't feel so good,"
I let my voice slur like I'm getting woozy.
"Oh my God," says Captain Montgomery as he sees the red splashes on me.
He looks at the interrogator. "Get a medic, now!"
The interrogator runs from the room. Captain Montgomery moves close to my cell.
"What did you do to yourself?" he asks, stunned.
Is that concern in his voice?
I consider laughing a goofy, drug-enhanced laugh, but decide that would just be mean. This man actually cares about my well being. That's nice, but I need to leave.
The interrogator rushes in with a guy in a white and blue shirt who I assume is the medic. The medic waits while the force field is deactivated, then rushes in.
"Take off her restraints," orders the medic.
The interrogator hesitates.
"I need to see where the wound is," says the medic in a tone that brooks no disagreement. As my restraints click open, I go limp pretending to pass out.
The medic immediately puts his arms around my back to help me sit up, just like I hoped. I raise my left wrist, the one with the metal still gripped in it and press the point into the side of his neck.
My eyes flick open as he stiffens.
"Get up slowly," I order. "And you Mr. Torture Fun Time, you're going to trade places with me."
The medic slowly eases up. I follow a step behind him, keeping the point against his neck and I nod toward the cuffs I just vacated.
"Put on the restraints on him." I tell the medic.
The cuffs click over the interrogator’s legs and wrists. I doubt that will hold him for long. I motion for him to sit down.
