Back In Blue

by G R Matthews

  Against the dark of the ocean, I saw other blue blades rise and fall. There was a muffled whumpf and a pressure wave struck my suit. Not hard, but I knew the source. My enemy’s suit had imploded. Two more followed, weaker and further away.

  I had no idea who was alive and who had died. The comms line was gone, broken as we started to move, so communication was impossible. My colleagues were now as much of a danger to me as the VKYN troops. I wouldn't know who was approaching until they were close enough to see in the light of my torch. On the plus side, I was clear of the ring of defenders and with all the noise of battle the sensors around here would be mostly useless.

  Time to hide. I shut off the cutter and the sudden absence of that cerulean flame caused me to blink. A few dim flares of blue still swung around in the distance, but soon they were nothing but a memory. I turned down the motor and cut my speed, letting the residual kinetic energy drive me towards the sea floor.

  Blind hide and seek. An update of my age-old children's game. Only here, to be found meant capture, torture, interrogation and execution. Probably.

  Touching down, I let my knees absorb the impact and curled myself into a ball, draining the last of the power from motor and exoskeleton. The sounds of battle travelled well through water and I wished they wouldn't. There were no screams, underwater the human voice doesn't work too well. Instead the noise to be feared was that of bubbles forming, rising and popping. Air escaping and the only things that needed air down here were us, humans. The one thing that wasn't built to survive in this environment.

  I shook my head in the QxyQuid filled safety of my helmet. I couldn't stay here. They knew we were around, and a simple search pattern would discover us quickly enough. Every sensor would be turned on and at highest sensitivity. Personnel would be manning every station, ears focused on the sounds, eyes trained on the monitors and the city AI would be backing them up. My best chance was to get as far away as I could while the battle masked my own sounds.

  Standing, I began to slog my way towards the first of Abrahams' waypoints. Why he'd picked this route I didn't know. Perhaps he'd prepared it on the way in, which would be a good bit of forward planning, or more likely he'd cobbled it together in the few seconds we'd hung in the water. Whatever it was, it didn't matter, it was a plan, a sense of certainty in the chaos of battle.

  I tried to close my mind from the thoughts of Abrahams, Roth and especially Norah. There had been three decompressions, suit failures. I knew the vague identity of one, it had after all been my fault. The other two though, just by the odds of the whole thing were likely to have included one of my friends. Since I'd hit the bottom of the ocean, I'd heard and felt no more. However, my suit was on minimum power, I was a distance away, and I'd been really concerned with saving my own life.

  When I reached the first waypoint, I'd know if someone else had survived. There'd be footprints to follow or someone waiting there. The thought of Norah being out here on her own, in the dark, having to rely on her training and not having my experience of all the shit the ocean can through at you, wasn't one which sat well in my stomach. I pushed on as fast as I could.

  It was the intruding hum of a motor that snapped me out of my thoughts. The abrupt return of light and the pincer which wrapped itself around my arm announced the presence of that sub which had been approaching the melee.

  I shook my arm, pushed power back into the exoskeleton, and tried to rip myself free, but I was stuck. Goosing the motors, adding more force to my attempts to extricate myself did no good. I was caught. Captured. At the mercies of VKYN.

  Fuck it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The cell was nice. A comfortable bed, wash basin and a clean toilet. They'd given me some food and water. I couldn't have asked for better. The only downsides were the explosives I'd planted on the hull and the knowledge that I appeared to be the only one who’d survived the fight below the city.

  When they'd dragged me in, I'd cast about for signs of Roth, Abrahams or Norah and not seen a thing. I'd tried to ask questions, but they'd told me nothing.

  My Fish-Suit had been stripped from me and taken away on a trolley. Stood in just my skins, dripping with QxyQuid, I'd been under armed guard and they looked ready to shoot me the moment I looked funny at them. For once my mouth stayed shut. Small blessing.

  The guards who escorted me now were all tall, broad shouldered and could snap me in two without breaking a sweat. More than that, the guns they carried, the armour they wore and the utter lack of anything resembling human warmth in their eye didn't bode well. I had to look at it from their side for a moment. I’d killed one of their friends in an effort to escape, they had little reason to like me.

  Also, in a moment of honesty, I could recognise that they might just be a little worried about our presence so close to their city. We had dotted a fair number of explosives across their hull and set them on a timer. They knew there were bombs, it was what Fish-Suit troops were used for, and they'd be wanting to find them pretty quickly.

  However, they'd settled for shoving me in a cell, feeding me, and leaving me alone. I'd expected interrogation straight away. Those explosives wouldn't be easy to find, not on a city this size, and the quickest way to locate them would be for me to tell them.

  I didn't want to do that. There was a small ship of hope docked in my harbour. Its raised flags said that when the explosives went off, a few hours from now, the confusion might give me a chance to break free. However, the ship was wallowing in the rough seas of reality and it had sprung a leak, the captain was AWOL, the rigging damaged, and a thousand other things which any good sailor would tell meant the thing was one slapping wave away from sinking.

  "Get up," the guard who appeared at my cell door grunted.

  I stood, there was little point getting into a fight about something so simple. There was also no chance I would win the confrontation, not when he was bigger than me and could call on five or six friends and I had an ally count of exactly zero.

  "Put this on," the guard said, throwing a bright orange jumpsuit at me. I caught it on reflex. My skins had dried and I was warm enough, but perhaps the jump suit was standard issue for prisoners.

  I unzipped my skins but kept them on, it paid to be prepared, and dragged the jumpsuit over them. It was a baggy, one size fits all kind of garment, but the elasticated waist gave the outfit some shape. It wouldn't win any fashion awards and the only chance of getting laid in it was one I didn't relish or even want to think about.

  "Follow me," the guard said clearly using all his considerable conversational skills.

  "Of course," I said, warming to him. "Lead the way."

  "Don't speak," he said without turning.

  "Right," I replied. "Not speaking now."

  There was a little hitch in his step, but he carried on without acknowledging my replies. Another guard, almost a twin of the first, stepped in behind me.

  They led me along the corridor of cell doors and I tried to peer in each one through the little viewing hatches. However, those which were open revealed no inside and those which were closed I couldn't see through. If I'd been wearing a red cape and pants of the same colour outside a blue jumpsuit, I'm sure I'd have found the doors lined with lead.

  Keeping secrets and me off balance, always wondering about the fate of my friends, was a sound tactic in preparation for an interrogation. I'd been questioned by a lot of security guards, a number of lawyers, military intelligence, psychiatrists, and Tyler. Of them all, my daughter had been the most persistent.

  My talkative guard opened a door and gestured for me to go inside. Favouring him with a nod, I stepped through the open portal into a new room. There were no windows in any of the white walls though there was a camera in the centre of the ceiling and two more at opposing corners. A brushed steel table sat in the middle of the room with two chairs on this side of it and one on the other.

  "Sit," my guard said.

  I stepped forward and pulled out the first chair. It
scrapped across the floor with a pleasing squeal and I sat down.

  "Not there," my guard said with a frown on his face.

  "Sorry." I took the seat next to it.

  "The other chair." My guard pointed out the chair on the opposite side of the table.

  "Ah," I replied, moving around to it. "If you'd just said so."

  The guard grunted and stepped back, closing the door. I'd exchanged a comfortable cell for an uncomfortable one. I looked around, rediscovered there was nothing to see and settled for crossing my legs and leaning back in the chair.

  The metal frame bit into my back after a few seconds and I was forced to sit back up, resting my arms on the metal table. The edge cut into my forearms, so I propped my elbows on its surface and clasped my hands. Now I looked like I was praying, and religion was never something I was comfortable with so I put my hands in my lap.

  I took a deep breath and sighed. The air was warm, pleasant, but the room was boring. Given the choice, I'd have closed my eyes and gone to sleep. A few minutes later my arse began to ache, and I was forced to shift from one cheek to the other, trying to encourage blood to flow to the painful bits.

  They'd leave me here for a while. Stretching out the worry and concern, letting my mind conjure up all sorts of tortures, questions and painful scenarios. It was part of the whole strategy. However, they couldn't leave it too long. Not with the explosives on the hull and I wanted to be ready for those to go off. I'd no idea how to get out of the city, but one problem at a time. Having a well thought out plan hadn't helped us, me, so far.

  When no one came to the door after what I guessed to be around thirty minutes, I stood up. My legs were restless and my arse was starting to go numb even with the frequent shifting and massages. The room was small and pacing back and forth gave me something to do for a little while.

  At some point someone would come in and start asking me questions. It was getting closer and closer to the time when the bombs would go boom. As much as I didn't want to answer their questions, there was a chance I could find something out about my team. Good news or bad news, it was always better to know. I could plan, or rather improvise, for every eventuality that way.

  Ten minutes of pacing and still no one had shown up. Deciding against the chair, I picked a spot in a corner, in sight of all the cameras and slid down the wall. The floor was metal with those little raised diamonds pressed into it, for traction most likely. I could acknowledge the purpose of keeping the floor bare. It was easier to wipe up the blood and any other bodily fluid which spilled from its owner.

  Leaning back, ignoring the conjured imaginings of Norah's broken and bloody body, I closed my eyes and rested my head against the wall.

  Abrahams, if he lived, could look after himself. He'd been in war before and he'd experience of life. There was little an interrogator could do that he wouldn't have seen, expected and prepared himself for. Sure, he would talk. We all would, but we'd do our damnedest to make sure it was after the bombs had gone off. Giving information then might stave off the worst of the beatings.

  Roth, I didn't know so well. An Ensign like Norah but a little longer in the tooth relatively speaking. During his training he would have suffered the module on resisting interrogation. If you survived the QxyQuid you were made of tough, stubborn stuff. He would know the drill. Those explosions were his best chance as well.

  Norah though, I worried for her. Of course, she had been through the same training, was made of the same stuff we all were and would, no doubt, find my thoughts to be an insult to womanhood around the oceans. I couldn't help it though, it's the way I was raised and the teachings of my own experience.

  I was scared for her. I didn't want her to be hurt, to be tortured, to suffer. I knew all that stuff was banned by conventions signed by every corporation, but I’m not an innocent, I know it happens. Who would they have inflict the beating? A man, a woman? Did it matter? There'd be drugs and instruments at some point, just to check and recheck the information we gave, but it always started with a beating.

  "Ah," said a soft, cultured voice from the doorway, "there you are Lieutenant Hayes. Please take a seat. We have much to discuss."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The tall blond, but softly spoken, officer walked over to the table and set a heavy bag down upon it. An assistant placed two more by the door.

  Despite myself, I stood and took the few steps to the single chair and sat down. Curiosity had killed so many cats that they’d become quite expensive. I tried to peek over the top of the bag to see what was in there. My brain, for once not pickled in alcohol, told me it wasn’t party balloons and nibbles.

  "Thank you, Lieutenant Hayes," the officer said. He waved to his assistant. "You can go. I am sure the Lieutenant here will be no trouble."

  Without any argument the other officer nodded and left the room, closing and locking the door behind him. No witnesses, my mind helpfully supplied as the reason.

  I sat in silence as the officer withdrew a Pad from the pocket of his trousers and set it on the table next to the bag. From his top pocket, he drew a long slender piece of metal and instinctively I leaned away until I realised it was a stylus for the Pad.

  "I always lose that," he said, not looking at me. He placed the stylus next to the Pad and looked up at me. "Do you find yourself forgetting things?"

  "Lieutenant Hayes," I began to say, intending it to follow that up with my service number but found I couldn't quite recall it.

  "Pleased to meet you," the officer said. "I am Captain Jonasson. Perhaps you can help me?"

  "Lieutenant Hayes," I repeated. I'd done the training. A three-day course on how to resist interrogation. We'd not been allowed to sleep or eat, and though they'd given us as much water as we wanted, they didn't provide any toilet facilities. By the second day we stank of stale urine, not all of it our own. The problem here seemed to be I was confusing the training with old black and white clips of men sporting luxurious moustaches who were determined to escape their own prisoner of war camp.

  "Indeed," Jonasson said. "Should you wish, I can tell you quite a bit about Lieutenant Junior Grade Corin Hayes."

  He picked up the Pad and began tapping away. Every so often he would nod and grunt. I stayed silent. He'd yet to mention the bags and the longer that lasted the better, even though I knew it was a purposeful tactic. My mind would begin torturing me with images, fears and worry long before the physical pain began.

  "An eventful life," he said after a time, placing the Pad back down. I could see my picture upon it alongside a lot of small writing which probably comprised my service record. "I am sorry for your loss. To lose a child is too painful for words."

  Sympathy. Always appreciated if there was the chance of beer or a bunk-up, but right now both of those possibilities seemed remote. I settled for a non-committal nod.

  "And the security services are yet to find the culprit?" He looked up, caught my eye and shook his head. "That is a shame. To have that hanging over you. I suspect it keeps you awake at night. Though your file indicates that you became alcohol dependent for quite a number of years."

  I picked a spot on the wall behind him and stared at it.

  "Your wife is also gone from your life, I see. To lose both daughter and wife in a short space of time. Sadly, I've noted that death of a loved one often pushes others away," he said. "Just when you need them the most."

  My eyes bored into the wall as if by force of will I could make a hole large enough to escape through.

  "I did skim read your psychological notes. The doctor was quite sympathetic to your plight, though also frustrated, and understand I am reading between the lines here, with your lack of a willingness to face up to the problems you faced."

  I turned my gaze to the camera in the corner of the room and gave it a wave.

  "She notes also that you tend to avoid questions you don't wish to answer with displays of inappropriate behaviour."

  "You don't need to ask any questions if you know all
that," I said, and then bit my tongue. Silence was stage one of the defence process. Don't talk for as long as you can. Don't give them a chance to engage you, to find your weaknesses. Somehow, I didn't think my instructor had expected the enemy to have my full dossier.

  "I've read about you, Lieutenant, and must confess I am intrigued. Not many people could have gone through what you did, the death of your daughter and negligence which caused the demise of your friends, the status as a pariah in your own city, and come through it without a few scars." He shook his head a little, a gesture I caught from the corner of my eye. "We all carry those, Lieutenant. Most of us with dignity, with pain, pride and regret, but you do your best to hide from yours. Yet, you're an intelligent man, you know they will always be there. It is a puzzle."

  "Good luck solving it," I said, deciding that silence wasn't working for me.

  "I've no intention of solving your problems, Lieutenant, only mine," Jonasson said. "Which we should turn to now, I think."

  "I'm listening," I said, flicking a quick look at him. "But don't come to me for marital advice or because you can't get it up anymore. I doubt I could help with the first and as for the second, you're not my type."

  "Deflection and inappropriate," Jonasson said and I heard the humour in his accented voice. "Perhaps I should keep a tally chart."

  "Whatever makes you happy," I replied.

  "I would be happy to hear about your mission, Lieutenant Hayes," he said, lifting the stylus and twirling it around his fingers.

  "Lieutenant Hayes," I said. "Service number... well, you have that in my file."

  "I do indeed." He tapped the Pad with his stylus. "But the mission?"

  "Uh-huh." I shook my head.

  "Four Fish-Suit troops sent to my city by NOAH," he said, glancing at me before looking back down at the Pad. "It is no secret that such soldiers are used to destroy."

  "I'm a Wet-welder," I protested. "I build and repair."