“I can’t abide cursing,” Abram said in his flat, cold voice.
Tahir didn’t think the man writhing in the frame heard him. At first, Tahir felt sorry for State Prince Parmet when he was ushered into the room. Abram had wasted no time on Beta Priamos Station, other than to determine it was secure. Once Abram was down on the moon’s surface, he’d looked at the roster of names that had been collected and immediately selected the Terran State Prince for questioning.
“I know what that’s for,” Parmet said, looking at the frame and the technicians. “Why don’t you just ask me for the information you seek, whatever it is? I might cooperate.”
“How could I trust your answers?” Abram asked.
“That’s what I would say. This is an ironic twist of fate, which you wouldn’t appreciate.” Parmet gracefully shrugged.
“You’re mistaken. If I can craft your arc of retribution, then I improve my own kismet.”
As Tahir watched the two men face off, he couldn’t help but be impressed with Parmet’s stature and bearing. Of course, he knew the Terrans were consummate actors and with their somaural training, could control many autonomous muscles and reactions. That knowledge didn’t make the tall man with near-golden skin any less imposing. By contrast, Abram became stooped and sallow, bitterness oozing from every pore.
“Somehow, I’m not surprised that this is really all about you.” Acidic disdain dripped from Parmet’s voice. Abram ignored the words; the technicians exchanged frightened glances.
Parmet stepped into the frame with dignity and let the technicians tighten the restraints. His somaural abilities soon couldn’t withstand the regimen of pain inducers and emotional feedback enhancers that Abram’s professional torturers pumped into his bloodstream.
As a first step, Abram probed for leverage as the technicians worked the pain enhancers. Parmet was protective of his family and had particular fondness for his first and only son. He also still grieved the loss of his brother at Ura-Guinn; the brother and brother’s wife were going to join Parmet’s multimarriage. Tahir felt twinges of sympathy after learning this. He no longer thought the Terran multimarriage was offensive and kept his “cultural dilution,” as Abram would have called it, private.
Abram started using Parmet’s son as coercion, moving to more constructive and relevant questions. Why was Parmet here in G-145? What were the features of his ship? Which contractors on this moon were Terran and which were Autonomist? Abram looked for the additional peripheral information. At this point, in an effort to please the captor or to help their savior, whichever script was being played, the subject would babble more information than necessary. Abram uncovered some surprises.
Why was Parmet in G-145?
First surprise: Parmet had tortured and coerced a woman to get Terran contractors some leases. Tahir’s opinion of the State Prince dropped, while one of the men laughed and then choked when Abram stared at him. Abram didn’t appear amused so much as vindicated.
“I always knew commerce and business would eventually adopt the tools of warfare.” Abram nodded.
What were the features of Parmet’s ship?
Second surprise: Parmet’s ship wasn’t the commercial version of the TM-8440; it was a retrofitted military model that still held an original command and control module for the Falcon missile. This time, Abram almost smiled.
“Can we use that CCM to interface with the Mark Fifteen package?” Abram turned to Tahir and in doing so, missed the look of horror that crossed Parmet’s face. Tahir wondered how cognizant the subject was during drug-induced torture. Since Parmet had practically invented this type of torture during the war, perhaps they should be cautious about information flowing the other way during this interrogation.
“With some adjustments, yes.” Tahir said nothing more and Abram turned back to Parmet, who again had bulging eyes and twisted lips from the pain of his existence. Worry knotted Tahir’s gut and he chewed the inside of his cheek. Parmet’s ship had taken ten hours off Abram’s schedule and Tahir tried to hold down his panic. He was resolved to be out of G-145 before Abram used the TD weapon, but he still didn’t have a whisper of an escape plan.
Abram continued the probing. Which contractors on this moon were Terran and which were Autonomist?
Third surprise: One of the prime contractors, Hellas Nautikos, was owned primarily by Minoans. Shock hit everyone in the room like a stun grenade. The men froze and the room was quiet, except for the suppressed moan that came from Parmet’s throat.
“Call Emery. And get this man’s son.” Abram’s voice was soft and flat, but Tahir recognized the stance and the careful enunciation. He’d seen it on the video of Abram with his mother, and fear started creeping over him. He had to fight an urge to curl up in a corner and hide. Abram was enraged, but he wouldn’t let his feelings manifest in outward symptoms—the messenger of such news was a safe outlet for his rage. Parmet would end up dead or, like Tahir’s mother, a vegetable. Tahir’s stomach churned as a technician departed to retrieve Parmet’s son.
Emery was quick in responding to Abram’s summons. He eyed Abram, then stood beside Tahir with his hands held behind his back and his feet braced wide.
“Emery, find every supervisor that works for Hellas Nautikos and execute them.”
“Pardon? Sir?” Even Emery, used to obeying orders, was startled. According to Qesan’s stratagems, Abram should be manipulating their prisoners in efforts to start small steps of cooperation. Each bit of cooperation would lead to more. At this phase of their mission, according to Qesan, executions were contrary to their objectives.
“Execute them.They work for our enemy.”Abram turned away in dismissal, looking at Parmet with calculation.
Emery bowed his head in assent and went to the door, but paused as Abram absently added, “Emery. You might as well get rid of the military personnel, while you’re at it. We can’t afford to keep them around.”
The door beside Tahir opened and he saw Parmet’s son. Chander, according to net-think, was eleven years old, yet he matched the height of his guard. Terrans bred their children tall and the boy’s face indicated his true age. His intense green eyes were natural, since he was Terran, and they flashed in barely suppressed terror.
“Why am I here?” Chander asked. His mouth clamped shut as his gaze went to the end of the room, where the frame clamped his father into a semi-upright position.
“Shut up.” The technician holding Chander’s arm tightened his grip.
Chander’s face went slack. Tahir knew what the boy was feeling, being suddenly reminded of the times he himself had been escorted into his father’s viewing room to see the video of his mother’s torture. It was an “example of Minoan oppression,” as Abram had called it.
Abram, standing beside the drooling Parmet, hadn’t noticed the boy’s arrival. “I couldn’t care less if we break him, so increase the dosage,” he was saying to the technician. “First, I need him to give us low-stress passwords for running his ship. Second, I want to know everything I can about the lessees here on this moon. I want detailed backgrounds on all the players, whatever he got from Terran military intelligence.”
The technician was pushing Chander toward the focus platform, the raised and spotlighted area that Parmet could see, given the tunneled vision from the drugs and blinders. Tahir tapped Chander’s shoulder, causing him to jerk his head. His thick chestnut braid flipped over his shoulder.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Tahir said softly. “You are separate from what happens to your father.”
“Go fuck yourself.” Chander’s face broke into a snarl as he was pulled to the focus platform.
Tahir shook his head. The boy was probably trying to practice somaural control, which was a mistake. Abram would require honest pain from Chander to influence Parmet, even though Parmet’s world was exaggerated and artificial.
As the technician twisted Chander’s arms behind him and into the harness, Tahir closed his eyes. He couldn’t stop his ears, however
, as the shrieks of the boy’s pain were echoed, louder and shriller, by the father’s screams. Abram’s flat voice cut through all of it, asking measured questions and making promises that he’d never keep. Tahir clenched his jaw and pushed his anger deep, down into his depths where it festered and compressed into hate.
CHAPTER 12
When Qesan says “cut off the head,” he means it. Getting rid of prior leadership is necessary for focusing followers, but Qesan cautions that executions must happen early while the people are confused by their new circumstances. This helps prevent martyrs. Of course, he only considers male followers, male leaders—I think women are discussed in an appendix on resources, right after cattle. Before reading more, I suggest you go watch this [video] where the Minoans bomb his ass. Laugh wildly, freely, to keep yourself sane. . . .
—Misogynist Freaks, Lauren Swan Kincaid, 2103.043.11.25 UT, indexed by Heraclitus 29 under Conflict Imperative
“I saw men in civilian clothes with flechette weapons,” Joyce said quietly to Maria, who had just joined him in the closet.
Maria had served half her career in the Terran Expansion League Space Force before moving to TEBI; she had to know the ramifications of his words. The Phaistos Protocols directed that personnel carrying deadly weapons must be in military uniform with rank displayed.
“I don’t know who they are, or who directs them,” Maria whispered. “I left the SP and his family to get to a contractor meeting, but when I was going through the great hall, I saw your friend Kedros detained and marched away. Evasion became necessary.”
Regretfully, he had no time to worry about Kedros’s situation right now. “How long until they search this office?”
Maria’s mouth came close to his ear again as she said, “The office lock requires my handprint. They won’t be able to open it. I’m hoping they’ll assume this room has been shut off for later exploration and analysis, as are many of the other rooms.”
“Then why am I in this hell of a cupboard!” He pushed past her.
“Shush.” She put a hand on his mouth and he smelled the fresh, pungent scent of her soap or lotion. “They can still hear us.”
Joyce took a deep breath and looked at the door to the office. It sealed well, but he could see a tiny crack of light from the hallway. He turned on his small slate-light, keeping it at the lowest setting, and looked about the office.
“Perhaps we should finish negotiating the terms of your defection and get your signature,” he said.
“You want to do that now?”
“That’s the only way I can trust you.” His voice was cold, intentionally insulting.
Her response was to raise one eyebrow.
“You rejected our first offer of compensation—”
“Which was based upon staying in place.” She folded her arms and frowned with irritation—purposely. He had to remember her somaural skills. “Look, Joyce, I know the rules of this game, because I’ve played them from the other side. You want me to stay where I am, as a double agent, but that’s not acceptable. I want to emigrate, but my TEBI experience prevents me from doing that legally and openly. That’s why I called your Directorate. Let’s move on.”
He picked up on the important words. “You say you’ve played this game from the other side?”
“That’s what you need, isn’t it?” She smiled. “I’ve got recent information about our agents. Some are double-dealing.”
“We already know about Lieutenant Colonel Jacinthe Voyage.”
Maria let nothing show, neither disappointment nor surprise. “What if there are others? Besides, you want to know how Cara Paulos infiltrated our network.”
Yes, he needed details on Cipher, Kedros’s old crewmate, originally Cara Paulos, to piece together how she’d taken control of Karthage Point’s environmental systems. Hearing footfalls pass the office again, he realized he shouldn’t delay. Still keeping to a whisper, he asked, “What’s your price?”
“I want a secure, well-paying job, preferably in what I do best. I’ll require eighty thousand HKD per year in salary and, above all, Consortium citizenship so that”—she paused slightly, almost imperceptibly—“I can have children. Children with citizenship.”
Joyce stared at the woman, whose dark blue eyes, on the same level as his, were defiant. His mind was backtracking, because this was back-ass-ward from what he and Edones thought Maria wanted.
Everyone knew that the Terrans used strict eugenic controls via their multimarriages. Accidental pregnancies were prevented by state-applied birth control implants, with the additional threat of withholding citizenship from unplanned and unapproved progeny. Citizenship was the only way to have benefits such as health care, but it was that governmental health-care system with which Maria had run afoul: She wasn’t allowed to have children due to Tantor’s Sun disease, which she’d contracted in a battle near Tantor. This disease incurred a measurable genetic mutation that would likely be found in all her eggs. On Autonomist worlds, the mutation was considered benign and could be removed from the egg, if parents wished, either in utero or before fertilization. Maria also had a weakened respiratory system from Tantor’s Sun disease, but, like other battle wounds, the condition wasn’t hereditary.
Joyce cleared his throat, not sure about finding a job that fit what she “did best,” but he needed to keep her on the Directorate’s hook. “I can’t authorize any of these arrangements,” he said cautiously.
“And it doesn’t matter right now.” Maria motioned for silence as they heard more running footsteps in the corridor. After they faded away, she continued softly. “This system is technically under Pilgrimage Line control, so we’re both outside our jurisdictions. From what I’ve seen, this takeover came about by seeding the construction and mining crews with agents.”
“Even on the Pilgrimage?” He didn’t think that possible, considering how long ago the ship had started its voyage to G-145.
“There, I figure they muscled themselves on board and they’re now controlling the crew. For the last day, we’ve been denied bandwidth due to maintenance and I didn’t get suspicious until it was too late.” She shook her head. “Beta Priamos is probably also overrun.”
“By whom? What do they want?”
“Don’t know. But that puts us on the same side, doesn’t it?”
He still couldn’t trust her, but she was correct: The decades-old enmity between the Consortium and the League didn’t matter right now, inside this new system.
“We need comm,” he said grimly. “And information.”
She nodded. “We have to get up to Beta Priamos.”
Oleander learned why Captain Floros, as prickly and introverted as she was, had been snagged by the Directorate of Intelligence.
“Watch and learn, Young Flower,” Floros said to Oleander as she cracked her knuckles. She tapped the keyboard outline on the table and grinned menacingly at the display responding on the wall. “I’ll show you how to kick around those AI models—intelligent indexing, my ass.”
Oleander laughed. Across the conference room, Edones glanced at them and then went back to his subdued and hushed conversation with SP Hauser. His enigmatic and cold blue eyes could have been taken as discouragement of her levity, but she chose to ignore him.
This is how I handle galactic disasters. I need to look for humor in the little things. Besides, she was irritated that no one had told her that a Terran package could be detonated without the warhead interface or the security unlock codes.
“We’ve got to find this bastard,” Floros muttered as she displayed a search interface.
Oleander had never seen that interface and as she watched Floros, her mind cleared. She had to concentrate on her own task; all scenarios came to her queue so she could weed out the duplicates, and prioritize them for later analysis. Edones had told her that any scenario involving martyrdom should be higher priority for investigation.
The quick briefing regarding the design flaw in the Mark Fifteen arming sequence left Olea
nder a bit confused, but as she saw the scenarios submitted by the other officers, she felt a chill settle between her shoulder blades. Apparently, test codes could be substituted for operational arming codes, provided they were downloaded to the warhead package during a certain sequence of environmental conditions. This involved entry of valid test codes, quickly followed by a rapid increase and decrease in gravitational force, called an “S” maneuver based upon the graph of force versus time.
Every officer in the room had figured out a way to get the weapon to arm and possibly detonate. Oleander compared the scenarios. They all had a space vehicle hauling the warhead dangerously near a gravitational well, such as a sun or near-sunlike gas giant. She gave scenarios using manned vehicles a higher priority than those using remotely piloted vehicles, remembering Edones’s martyrdom factor.
There were plenty of hypotheses regarding how the isolationists might interface with the package and where they’d detonate it. Unfortunately, where related to why, which nobody understood. Everyone was guessing.
“I’ve got him. Boarding at—” Floros yelped and clamped her jaw shut.
Oleander put down her slate. Edones stood up, waiting.
Floros’s complexion paled. “Both Tahir Rouxe and his father, Abram Hadrian Rouxe, left Athens Point under assumed identities prepared by other members of their tribe. Civilian security was lax, since they didn’t fool my analysis.”
“Where were they going?” Edones asked.
Floros’s mouth twitched. “It’s G-145, sir. There’s been no response from anyone from that system for almost eight hours. Several Konstantinople Prime University sophists have issued complaints, saying they were cut off from archeological data because of a governmental conspiracy.”
Suddenly, all the Autonomist ear bugs alarmed in emergency mode, in that irritating way audible to everyone standing near. Oleander’s hand jerked up to silence hers, a motion that echoed Edones, Floros, and Bernard.
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