Secure Interrogation Facility Bravo-6, Commitment
Michael awoke with a start as the door to his cell crashed open with a bang. He had fallen asleep where he had been sitting and was stiff and sore. Sometime during the night he had toppled over without waking up, ending up curled into a fetal ball on the cold plascrete floor.
Oh, no, Michael thought as he looked up through sleep-fogged eyes still clogged with blood, cringing away from the black-uniformed figure towering over him. Not another beating. Please, God, not another beating. He was not sure he could take much more of this.
“Hello, Helfort. I’m Colonel Erwin Hartspring, Section 22, Doctrinal Security Service,” the man declared pleasantly, tapping his thigh with what looked like a short riding crop held in his left hand.
The man was tall, his body lean, muscles whipcord taut under an immaculately pressed tight black uniform with woven silver badges and a small row of medal ribbons on the left breast. His face was long and gaunt, with wrinkle-cut skin stretched tight over prominent cheekbones, windburned to a reddish-brown and sharpened by a straight nose dropping to a fine pencil mustache above thin, bloodless lips. His hair was cut down to a fine black stubble. It was the man’s eyes that made Michael’s heart sink. They were a pale, washed-out amber. They looked empty, pitiless. They were the eyes of a man who had seen too much to care about the battered, blood-soaked body at his feet. The man was a trashpress parody of a cold-blooded killer.
Michael shivered.
Hartspring leaned forward, the better to look at Michael, poking him with his riding crop. He winced, nose wrinkling in disgust.
“Oh, dear!” The man stepped back. “You are a bit of a mess, and to say you smell bad is an understatement. Really,” he added conversationally, “I keep telling my troopers to be more careful, but you know what?” Michael looked up at him suspiciously.
Hartspring paused.
Michael was obviously supposed to answer, so he shook his head. “No, sir,” he mumbled.
“I tell them, Michael, not to damage the goods, but you know what? I don’t think they listen to me.” He shook his head in mock despair. “Very coarse people, you know, these DocSec troopers. Most of them are not very bright and much too fond of the sight of blood for my liking. Other people’s blood, of course. They hate seeing their own. Oh, well, can’t be helped, I suppose.” He sighed in resignation.
He turned and shouted through the open cell door. “Sergeant!”
A well-built, powerfully muscled man a good head and a half shorter than Hartspring appeared in an instant. “Sir?”
“This is Sergeant Jacobsen, Helfort. Sergeant Jacobsen?”
“Sir?”
“Say good morning to Junior Lieutenant Helfort. He’s the hero of the Battle of Hell’s Moons, you know. If Fed holovids are to be believed.”
Jacobsen’s face was completely blank. He did not look at Michael. “Good morning, sir,” he barked at the far wall of the cell.
Hartspring smiled. “See how polite we can be, Helfort? Remember that, won’t you.”
He turned back to Jacobsen. “Now, Sergeant. This is what I want you to do. Doctor first. Tell that lazy scab-lifting son of a bitch that this is one of my Class A prisoners. Tell him that if I find that my very important Class A prisoner hasn’t been fixed up properly, then I’ll be fixing him up. Permanently. Got that?”
“Sir!” Jacobsen’s face was impassive.
“Good. When the doctor’s finished, take Helfort to Suite 517. I want him stripped, searched again, and then cleaned up. Bath, clean clothes, something to eat. You know the routine. When he’s done, give me a call.”
“Sir.”
With that, Colonel Hartspring was gone. Jacobsen reached down. Taking Michael by the collar of his tattered shipsuit, he lifted him effortlessly to his feet and bundled him out of the cell.
The whole business was completely unreal.
Without warning, Michael had risen from a living hell into a bizarre fantasy world, a world a million light-years away from the squalid brutality of plascrete cells and sullen thugs seemingly committed to making his every conscious minute a pain-filled nightmare.
In front of him were the remains of breakfast, probably the best Michael had ever enjoyed despite the pain eating involved. Michael, his appetite more than restored by the fact that some DocSec thug was not about to give him a good kicking, had demolished the spread as fast as his wrecked mouth and face would allow.
Comfortably bloated, he sat back. To all intents and purposes, he was in a luxury suite that would not have disgraced a five-star hotel. In fact, it was better than anything Michael had ever stayed in. Well, up to a point. The place was a luxury suite only if one ignored the fact that the door was plasteel and locked, the windows were plasglass and sealed, and his every move was watched by holocams covering every cubic centimeter of the suite. He could not even take a crap without being watched, for God’s sake. He laughed mirthlessly at the thought he might become a star of Hammer holovids. Michael Helfort takes a dump, now live on Channel 43!
Oh, and there was not a single thing in the whole apartment he could use to commit suicide. Nothing. He knew. He had looked everywhere.
Not that he planned to commit suicide, but it was always an option if things got too tough, he supposed. He could break out one of his escape kits, the one with the handy length of monofil line, but the thought of it slicing his head off if he tried to hang himself was more than he could bear. Worse, if he did, the Hammers would know about the kits, and that would screw things up big-time for everyone else. A sudden shiver ran up his spine. For all he knew, the Hammer had shot the rest of the Ishaqs out of hand. Maybe they were all in the lime pits. Maybe he was the last-
Michael forced himself to stop. Wondering what might have happened to the rest of the Ishaq’s crew would get him nowhere. He had done what little he could. What he should be thinking about now was himself.
Things were going to get tough again. He knew that. Michael was no fool. He knew what Colonel Hartspring was up to. He knew why Sergeant Jacobsen had been paraded in front of him. Good cop, bad cop. Soft man, hard man. Pampered one minute, beaten half to death the next. Michael shivered. It was all so cliched; he knew exactly where this was all heading, and if he could not find a way out, he might end up so badly damaged that he would be better off dead.
Some Hammer genius had decided that he had something to offer. Clearly, the Hammers being the Hammers, they would do whatever it took to get what they wanted. That much was for sure.
He did not know if he could hold out long enough to convince them he would never, ever cooperate. Would they stop before they killed him in the process? Would they even care? Probably not, he suspected.
He shivered, the sudden rush of sour fear turning his stomach over and over and over as he bolted out of his chair. He just made it to the toilet, where he lost the breakfast he had enjoyed so much, his ribs screaming in pain as spasm after violent spasm racked his body. Jeez, he thought, slumping to the floor to recover, that was fun.
Cleaning himself up, Michael came out of the bathroom, and there he was. Colonel Hartspring stood silent in the middle of the room, a half smile on his face, riding crop in hand. Sergeant Jacobsen, face as inscrutable as ever, stood half a pace behind him and to one side.
“Not feeling too well, Michael?”
Michael stared for a second. Then he snapped. “Fuck you, Hartspring!” He did not stop to think, his body speaking for him, his system suddenly fear-charged with enough adrenaline to get across the gap to Hartspring in an instant. If he was lucky, he might rip the colonel’s eyes out before Sergeant Jacobsen beat him to death.
Hartspring did not move, though his eyes narrowed in a sudden flash of anger. Michael took a deep breath, fighting to get himself back under control. Careful, Michael reminded himself, careful. Hartspring was a DocSec colonel, and they came in only one variety: lethally dangerous.
When Hartspring finally spoke, his voice was gentle and conciliatory. “Come on, Michael. No need for that,” he urged patiently, as if Michael were a wayward child. “Come on, sit down,” he said, pointing to a chair with his little cane. “We need to talk.”
Without a word, Michael did as he was told, watching Hartspring warily as the man settled himself into a chair opposite him.
“Now.” Hartspring leaned forward. “Listen to me, Michael. We can do this the easy way or we can-”
Astonished, Hartspring stopped as Michael lost it completely for the second time in as many minutes, but this time there was no anger. This time his head went back, and he laughed hysterically, chest heaving despite the pain, tears pouring down his face, hands slapping the arms of the chair. “Oh, Jesus! That hurts,” he sobbed, half laughing, half crying, near hysteria. “Really, Colonel Hartspring.” He paused to wipe his face, carefully avoiding the latest repairs to his shattered cheekbone. “Colonel. .”
Michael put his hands up, palms out, in an attempt to pacify Hartspring; by now the man looked pretty pissed. Michael decided he had to go for it. He had to take the chance.
“Colonel,” he apologized, “I’m sorry, really I am. Please forgive me, but save the corny trashvid stuff. I know how you guys do things. I know all about DocSec. You’re going to be nice to me, make me an offer, God knows what about. I’ll refuse, then your tame gorilla here”-Michael waved a dismissive hand at Jacobsen-“will beat the shit out of me, then you’ll be nice again. Around and around we’ll go until I drop dead or you get what you want.”
Hartspring sat mute, refusing to respond.
Michael plowed on. “So, Colonel, let’s cut to the chase. Why don’t you tell me exactly what you want. I’ll think about it and let you know if I can do what you want or not. If I can, then fine, I will. If I can’t, then I’ll tell you straight up.”
Michael took in a slow, deep breath. The moment had come for another big, big lie. He was getting good at them. He stared Hartspring right in the eye, face fixed in what he fondly hoped was a convincing look of earnest good faith.
“But here’s the catch, Colonel. If you lay a hand on me after that, I’ll order my neuronics to put me into a coma, a terminal coma. Your Doctor Whatshisname out there will never get me back. No Hammer doctor will ever get me back. Doesn’t matter how good they are. If you don’t get me to a Fed doctor inside sixty days, I’ll slip away quietly, and that’ll be that. You can feed me to the pigs. You can have me stuffed and mounted on a pedestal. You can chuck me into one of your damn lime pits. I won’t know, and I sure as hell won’t care.”
For a moment, Hartspring sat there. In an instant, he was out of his seat and, blindingly fast, reaching across to Michael, his riding crop slashing down backhanded. The crop sliced down across Michael’s face, reopening the cut across his forehead before a second slashing blow added a new cut to the side of his head. Thank God he’s not left-handed, Michael thought through the blinding pain, forcing himself not to respond. If Hartspring had been, his left cheekbone would have gone for the third time.
With obvious effort, Hartspring got himself back under control. He stood back.
Michael looked up at him, ignoring the blood running down his face. “I think you heard me, Colonel,” he said through teeth clenched tight with pain. “So do we have a deal?”
Hartspring half turned to Jacobsen. For one awful moment, Michael thought he was going to call his bluff and put Jacobsen to work. His heart began to pound, but Hartspring had other plans.
“Sergeant! Take Helfort to the doctor. Get him stitched up. I want him back here within the hour. Understood?”
“Sir.”
Hartspring turned and left.
A long and painful hour later, Hartspring returned.
“Right, Helfort. Sit down. I’ll make this quick. In exchange for your life, resettlement under a new identity anywhere in humanspace, and a one-time payment of five million FedMarks, the government of the Hammer of Kraa requires you to sign this affidavit”-Hartspring pushed a single sheet of paper across the table-“testifying to the fact that the Battle of Hell’s Moons was part of a wider Fed campaign to destroy the Hammer of Kraa and that the hijacking of the Mumtaz was nothing more than a convenient excuse for an illegal act of military adventurism.”
Michael’s eyebrows shot up as Hartspring sat back. What a load of bullshit, he thought. The man was barking mad.
“Thank you, Colonel.” Michael kept his tone businesslike. “That’s clear. May I think about what you’re asking me to do?”
“You do that, Helfort. I’ll be back at 09:00 tomorrow for your answer.”
“Thank you, sir. I don’t suppose you’ll let me talk it over with someone from the FedWorld embassy?” he added.
“Don’t push your damn luck, Helfort. Remember where you are,” Hartspring replied viciously. “I’ll see you at 09:00 tomorrow.”
“Fine by me, sir.”
Michael watched Hartspring leave. He stared at the door as it shut with a heavy thud, locks closing with metallic thunks.
Grabbing a big glass of fresh orange juice, he sat down to think through Hartspring’s offer, not that it needed any thinking, really. He already knew the answer-it would be some variation or other on the time-honored theme of “go fuck yourself ”-but he needed to be sure he had no better options.
He shook his head in bewilderment. Why the Hammers thought putting him up on the stand would help improve their image was a complete mystery. Now, if they could get a Fed admiral to turn over, that would be worth the effort. But a humble junior lieutenant? It was complete bullshit.
Michael realized that what he was seeing here was a textbook example of a culture that believed its own propaganda. Well, he decided, that’s what you got when dissent was ruthlessly suppressed, when reasoned argument was impossible. After all, arguing with someone who had the power of life and death over you was probably a good way to end up in a DocSec lime pit.
Well, be that as it may. He could not change what a bunch of dumb Hammers might think, and he was not going to try. He had rolled the dice. He had told the big lie. Either the colonel believed he could put himself into a coma at will or he did not.
If Hartspring did not believe him, he was completely screwed. The Hammers would soft-soap him one minute and beat the crap out of him the next until he either gave in or died. Michael shivered, the fear coming out of nowhere to grab him, turning his bowels to water. He was scared, more scared than he had been looking out at an oncoming Hammer rail-gun salvo.
He cursed silently. It was going to be a long, long day.