by G R Matthews
"According to your file and as I eluded to a moment ago, even when you build you've a tendency to destroy. Death follows you, Lieutenant. I should say, we have your explosives."
He meant the ones we hadn't had a chance to plant. Those that would seal and damage the doors and moon pools. The others would require a long search by Worker subs and Fish-suit pilots, certainly a visual search or maybe even by touch.
"We found them all, Lieutenant. Every single one of them. Just where you, Lieutenant Abrahams, Ensign Roth and Ensign Copeland planted them."
I squinted at him, then at the three black bags in the room, and shrugged. He was lying.
"You don't believe me?" The smile on his face was so smug I wanted to punch it clear off his face. "Allow me to show you."
He stood and began undoing the straps which kept the bag closed. Dipping his hand into the open maw, he retrieved the first explosive. It was ours, no doubt about it. We'd checked and re-checked them at the base, and again on the journey to the drop off point. I'd recognise them anyway.
"I had that on me when your sub caught me," I explained, trying for a confident smile.
"Possibly," he acceded. "However, I have these too."
More explosives came out of the bag. I counted them all as they hit the table. Eight. Two for each of us. The exact number we had left to plant when they’d found us.
"You caught us all," I said.
"You're a hard man to convince," he said. Stepping to the two other bags, he bent down and undid the clasps of the two other bags. From these, he pulled every other explosive device we'd carried to the city. They'd been placed at carefully designated sites to do the most damage to the doors, the docks and make it a right pain to repair. If they'd gone off there'd have been months of repair work to be carried out. Every component replaced, welding done, rerouting of cables and a million other things. Our plan had been like surgery compared the sledgehammer Military Intelligence had come up with.
"Shit," I muttered.
"Indeed, Lieutenant." Jonasson looked up and smiled at me. "Now, I'd like to introduce you to someone."
The door slid open and a mountain of man walked in, sideways as his shoulders would never had got through any other way.
"This is Ensign Blondell," Jonasson said, nodding towards the man whose jumpsuit was clearly the biggest size available and still, somehow, was too small. "As you'd expect, I will be asking you some questions about your plan, your intentions and, given time, the disposition of your forces. I hope you will answer them truthfully and quickly, for your sake. Blondell here is a man of few words, but as I am sure you've noticed, rather large fists."
I swallowed and nodded.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
"Still with us, Lieutenant?"
I heard the voice from a thousand kilometres away and felt a hand under my chin, lifting my head. I squinted through the glare of bright lights and strange mist which clouded my eyes.
"Still here," I mumbled, tasting a warm salty liquid on my tongue.
"You've a remarkable constitution," the voice said, and my eyes flicked in that direction. A vague, flesh-coloured face hung there, but its features were indistinguishable. "Ensign Blondell has almost worked up a sweat."
A grunt came from the opposite direction. I didn't bother turning, it was a waste of energy and I already knew who stood there.
"Stubborn," I said, spitting the blood from my mouth.
"It does appear so," the voice said. Jonasson, my sluggish brain provided a name to go with the blur of a person. "Still, this is just the beginning. The softening up, I believe your slang would have it."
"Fu..." My words caught on my swollen and split lips. I tried again, bringing saliva to my mouth, letting it mix with the blood. "Fuck you."
"Lieutenant," Jonasson admonished. "And we were getting on so well. If you would, Ensign?"
I exhaled and tensed my stomach, readying myself for the expect blow. Even so, the force of it lifted me and the chair from the floor. We landed, still upright, with a clatter of chair legs on metal floor. The sound rung hollow around the room. Bile rose in my throat and I gasped for breath as the acidic yellow liquid splattered over the floor.
"That will be all, Ensign," I heard Jonasson say as I struggled to draw breath. "Would you get the guards to escort Lieutenant Hayes back to his cell? And a clean-up team would be helpful. I'd like the room clean for our next guest."
I lifted my head, trying to get a look at my questioner hoping for a clue to the next victim’s identity.
"Ah, Lieutenant," Jonasson said, squatting down next to me so I could see the dark holes where his eyes should be, if I could focus. "I was remiss in informing you of our capture of more of your team. I apologise for the oversight. If you had told us everything I wanted to know, this next step would not be necessary."
I couldn't breathe to ask the question which raced to the front of my mind. Who was it?
Footsteps on the metal floor brought me from my shock and I heard the click-snap as the restraints on my wrists were removed. My legs were similarly freed and now would be a chance to escape. Rise up, throw punches, kick out, gouge and head-butt my way out of the room, find a gun and stage a rescue of whomever it was they had captured. Now was the time. Now or there might not be another chance.
Except I had no energy. My breath was coming in short, pained gasps. My ribs groaned and creaked on each inhale and exhale. The world around me was a blurry abstract of reality and my brain fired instructions at muscles that refused to comply.
Hands gripped me under the armpits and lifted me. I refused to be dragged from the room like a sack of fish-heads and tried to place one foot in front of the other in a semblance of walking. It fooled no one but saved my pride a little. At the moment that was all I had to hold on to.
Outside, the bright lights of the corridor and fresh air, devoid of stale sweat and scent of fresh vomit, helped to clear my head. My eyes regained the ability to focus, though one had a tendency to wander off of its own accord before a stern reminder and an effort of will brought it back under my conscious control.
The guards either side didn't speak or look in my direction. I wasn't ready for conversation just yet, and I'm sure I looked an absolute mess. In addition to the split and puffed up lips, I reckoned I had at least one black eye and my head felt heavy on neck muscles cruelly abused for the past hour or two, or three, or five. My sense of time seemed to have fled and there were no clocks to judge the hour.
Who had survived? The thought clambered its way up through the fog of pain. Abrahams, Roth or Norah. Maybe two or all three? Hope flared in my belly and for a moment the pain lifted, but reality extinguished the flame. I'd heard the implosions. One or more were dead. I knew it.
Abrahams was a wily, experienced pilot. He'd be the most likely to live through it. Roth and Norah were barely out of training. I'd lived because I'd done some damage and fled the area as fast as I could. Would the others have stayed to fight, despite the orders and their training. Fish-suits are not for combat, not blade to blade. They're built for stealth insertion and destruction of property. Which begged the question. How did they find us?
The question stuck in my mind for a good few seconds with no answer forthcoming when more guards joined the corridor from a junction ahead. Between them, and walking with that nervy stuttered gait which only comes through true fear, was Norah. Her hair was tied up and she still wore her skins just as I did. We caught sight of each other at the same time and while I went for a comforting nod and welcoming smile, she screamed and started to pull free of her guards.
It was an uneven struggle and one of them wrenched her arm up behind her back. Norah let out a yelp as she rose on tip-toes trying to ease the pain. Her face contorted in agony and there was every chance the guard would break her arm.
At which point, I snapped my right arm down and out of my guards’ grasp, twisting away. Reversing the motion, I drove my elbow back and up towards his face. There was a satisfying crunc
h and a grunt of pain from the man as he staggered backwards two steps on stiff legs before falling to the floor.
My other guard reacted a moment later by yanking on my arm and dragging me off balance. As a result, the wild punch I'd been in the process of winding up went sailing through empty air. A swift kick to the side of his knee and I was tumbling to the ground in an uncoordinated mess of limbs.
The impact drove what little air I had in my lungs out in an explosive grunt and a spray of blood. A spike of pain drove into my side and my vision dimmed, the lights above becoming distant stars which swam in the black ocean. I barely felt my arms pulled behind my back and the restraints go on my wrists as I coughed up another wad of blood.
"Hayes," Norah called out.
"Shut up," one of the guards shouted back at her.
A hand grabbed me under the armpits once more. "Get up."
I had to brace my head against the floor and drag my knees up to my chest to get any clearance on the floor. My arms behind my back and the insistent pulling of the guard were little help. With half a hop and sudden push I managed to get one foot under me and then the other.
"How you doing, Ensign?" I managed to say, though my swollen lips made speech difficult.
"I'm," she paused and looked to her guards, "fine. You look like shit."
"It's a new look I'm trying out," I said. A trickle of blood crawled down my chin.
"It isn't working," she said as her guards pushed her forward once more.
"I've worn it before," I said. "It's always in season." My own guards, including the one I'd knocked down encouraged me to move by the simple expedient of grabbing and dragging me. "Look after yourself."
She nodded, and I saw the fear creep back into her eyes. There was nothing I could do. To struggle would just increase her worry and I'd suffer another beating. Instead, I tried for a reassuring smile and a nod.
Norah was an Ensign, just. They'd had my full record so chances were they had hers too. Jonasson would know she knew nothing of any importance. Plus, they had the explosives so the threat to the city was gone. Maybe, they'd go easier on her. A couple of questions only. Realise she knew nothing. Check the file and let her go back to her cell. Where I could rescue her at some point.
Hopefully soon.
I wasn't sure I could suffer many more of Jonasson and Blondell's little chats.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
I spent the next hour nursing my bruises and worrying about Norah. My mind spun all sorts of images, one after the other with no let up. Horrors of blood, bone and all the cruelty that a sadistic bastard of a man can inflict upon a woman. Bile rose in my throat and anger flamed in my chest. The worst of it was the realisation that there was nothing I could do. Being powerless was a feeling I was used to and never enjoyed.
My door had a small spy hole in it which a guard could press his eye against to check on me. Now I spent my time with my own eye to the blurred image of the corridor beyond. I could see little, not just because of the blurring but the way in which the lenses were set. From the other side there'd be a great view of my room, a fish-eye lens enabling the guard to see every corner and crevice. Sadly, this meant that my view was skewed and distorted.
Twice I backed away from the door as I thought a guard was coming only to realise upon the sound of the boots that they were heading in a different direction. Once I had thought that a security guard had been walking on the ceiling until my brain refused enough times to make sense of that and it clarified into a janitor sweeping the floor.
Eventually, sometime in what seemed the next millennium, I made out the shapes of two guards carrying a figure between them. There was no way to be certain, but it could only be Norah or another of my team. The prison jumpsuits were so different to those worn by the guards that picking them apart through the spy hole was no great challenge.
I banged my closed fist on the door and shouted. "Norah."
Pressing my eye back to the spy hole I tried to focus on the figure being half-dragged, half-stumbling along the corridor. Did they lift their head? Did she look my way?
I pulled away and banged on the door three more times, shouting her name each time. My hand hurt, and my voice was hoarse, but this time when I looked into the reversed and distorted world beyond my door, I saw her head move. A flash of pink hair and a pale face. If she spoke, I couldn't hear and it wasn’t possible to see her face properly. Were there bruises, cuts, abrasions, a black eye to match my own?
She passed my door and the guards entered one four or five further down. It was impossible to be sure, and neither could I figure out which side of the corridor she was on. It didn't matter. She was close and once I was out of here I would be freeing her too. They hadn't built the prison that could hold Corin Hayes, I kidded myself.
The spy hole darkened, and a gruff, accented voice spoke. "Move away from the door. Stand by the opposite wall with your hands against it and legs apart."
"I'm not that kind of boy," I shouted back, even as I backed away and followed his instructions.
He didn't laugh. There was a lengthy wait while I stood spread eagle against the wall, a knot of pain beginning to form in my lower back and my ribs aching on each breath. When the door finally clicked open, I almost collapsed in relief.
"Next time," my friendly, cheerful, humour deficient guard said, "don't try and be funny. You're not."
"Opinions differ," I ventured.
"Not in here they don't," he said. "Food. Eat it or not, I don't care."
"Thanks," I replied. "My compliments to the chef."
"He'll be thrilled," the guard said. "You move, and it'll go bad for you. Plus, the food will be a lot colder when you wake up."
"Thanks for the tip," I said, trying to look over my shoulder at him.
"Told you," came the deep voice and a heavy boot crashed into the back of my knee.
I yelped in pain. The combined kick and impact of my bony knee on the solid wall sent a spear of agony up my leg and into my brain, then out of my mouth. Falling to the floor, curling up and cupping my knee in both hands, I didn't bother to see the smile on the guard’s face though I knew it would be there.
The door clicked closed and there came the ratchet of a heavy lock plus a few deadbolts. Quiet descended upon the room, broken only by the litany of muttered and mumbled curses which flowed from my mouth like a tsunami.
When the pain subsided enough for more focused thought to encroach upon my existence, I pulled myself across the floor towards the bed where my quick footed guard had left my meal. More curses flowed as I lifted myself onto the thin mattress and gazed down upon my repast.
Six balls of grey looking meat flavoured algae swimming in a thin gravy stared back up me accusingly. Next to the bowl of testicles was a slab of plain bread and a recyclable cup of water. VKYN served prison meals like everywhere else, with a lack of imagination and a taste that could only be described as nondescript. There was a spork on the tray and though I'd no reason to denigrate the offensive abilities of such an implement, against armed and trained guards it was not my favoured weapon.
I stabbed one of the meatballs and raised it to my nose, giving it a cautionary sniff, before taking a bite. It smelled of nothing and tasted of the same, but I chewed and swallowed it anyway. A brief consideration of poison caressed my mind the moment I felt the masticated foodstuff settle in my belly like rusty cannonball, but if they'd wanted me dead, they'd had ample opportunity.
Prisoners of war, even Fish-Suit pilots, would be kept till the war was over and then exchanged, like for like, during the armistice. Looking at it that way, life didn't seem so bad. Free room and board, all the tasteless food I could eat and fresh water by the cupful. For me the war was over and against all the odds I'd survived it. Unless NOAH decided to blow this city out of the water with another team of Fish-Suits or the simpler expedient of attacking it with a great big fleet.
And Norah. She wasn't cut out for a life in prison. She wouldn't see the chance to live o
ut the war in relative safety and comfort was one to be welcomed. No superiors forever offering you the chance to go on a suicide mission claiming it would look good in your performance management file. No forms to fill, pointless drills or physical exercise to interrupt the long days and weeks of peace and quiet. It was a dream of mine, not hers.
Fuck it. I'd have to stage some daring rescue and, no doubt, get us both shot in the process. She'd never forgive me if I didn't. I can face a lot of things, but the scorn of a woman is a terrible torture for any man who's ever been married.
I attacked another meatball and while I chewed I took stock of my possessions and possible weapons. Me, bruised, battered, and despondent. A plastic tray, no sharp edges, hidden blades that I could find. The bowl of meatballs, four left swimming in the gravy, a slice of bread and the spork. I'm sure Alexander the Great could have conquered the known world with this assortment of high-tech weaponry. I could barely stop myself choking on the meatball. Maybe I could get the guard to eat one and commit suicide by meatball?
I wasted another poisonous spheroid by cutting it up in search of some actual flavour before spooning the remains into my mouth with the spork. My mind wandered in search of a cunning plan to extricate myself and Norah from this place, but it tripped over nothing and I was down to three meatballs. I could juggle them in the hope of distracting the guard and then... hit him? It was a plan, just not a good or useful one.
A piece of algae lodged between two of my teeth and my tongue failed to dislodge it. Standing and worrying at the morsel with a finger nail, I hobbled over to the door and painted the spy hole with a dab of thin gravy and a splodge of meatball. It was petty, but I'd have a little privacy from the outside.
There'd be camera's in the wall somewhere. At least one, and I didn't have enough gravy or meatballs to paint all the walls. I'd have to spot it and block it. The lens would be small, unobtrusive, but up high so it could look down upon the entirety of the cell.
