Level B holding cell, the Gruj, McNair, Commitment
The cold had seeped deep into his body. He was chilled right down the bone. For hours his body had been racked by uncontrollable shivering. Hypothermia, Michael thought. If this goes on much longer, I’m going to die.
Michael sat with his head back, eyes looking up at the single recessed light in the ceiling, leaning against the ceramcrete wall, at the point where he did not have the energy to care anymore. After days of relentless interrogation and physical abuse, his reserves of courage, of resilience, of self-belief, had run dry. He had nothing left to absorb the appalling shocks that life dished out. He was empty. He did not care. He had nothing left to care about. He was just a number in orange DocSec coveralls waiting to die.
He laughed softly, a laugh that mocked his obsessive determination to hunt down and kill Hartspring.
The cell door banged opened, swinging back into the wall with a crash. Michael did not even look up, unable to summon the slightest interest in the man standing in the opening.
“On your feet, 775,” the DocSec trooper said.
With an effort, Michael dragged himself upright.
“Outside!”
Michael stumbled after the man and into a bleak, harshly lit ceramcrete corridor. It reeked of chlorine. The Hammers used tons of the stuff to scour the blood and shit out of the cells. Two troopers waited for him. They took him by the upper arms and set off. Michael forced the men to take his weight. His feet dragged, one last tiny act of defiance.
If it bothered the troopers, they didn’t let it show. After a bewildering succession of turns and two elevator rides, Michael was manhandled into a small room and thrown into a chair; his arms and legs were secured to small rings. Job done, the troopers left, the door slamming behind them. Michael looked around, confused. He wondered what this place was. Unlike the interrogation rooms he’d been in over the last few days, this one was warm, softly lit, its floor not bare ceramcrete but carpeted. And the table was timber, not scuffed and scarred metal like all the rest.
He was left on his own for a long time. The minutes dragged past, but Michael was content to sit there to thaw out. The warmth soaked the chill out of his bones until his head fell back and he drifted into sleep.
A smack to the back of the head jerked him awake. “What the fuck?” Michael mumbled.
It was Hartspring. “Wake up, you sack of shit,” he said, his riding crop stabbing at Michael’s chest.
“What do you want now?” Michael muttered.
“You have a visitor, Helfort. And I’m warning you: Be polite, or by Kraa I’ll make you wish you were dead. Understood?”
Michael glared at Hartspring. His silence earned him a savage slash across the back from the man’s riding crop. “One day,” Michael hissed, “I’ll make you eat that fucking thing.”
Hartspring sniffed. “I don’t think so,” he said with a disdainful sneer.
The door opened. Michael sat up; he could not help himself. “I’ll be damned,” he whispered as he saw who it was.
“So, Colonel Hartspring,” Jeremiah Polk said as he walked in, “this is the young man who has given me so much trouble.”
“Yes, sir.”
Michael stared up into Polk’s face. It was a hard face, lined and drawn, the eyes hard too, a deep brown, almost black. They glittered in the harsh light.
Polk nodded. “Not very impressive,” he said. “He’s much smaller than I expected. So, Helfort, I hope the colonel’s treating you well.”
Anger flared. “This is the Gruj,” Michael snapped, “so that’s got to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever-”
Hartspring’s hand shot out. It locked itself around Michael’s throat and choked him into silence. “I won’t tell you again, boy,” he snarled. “Mind your manners.”
“It’s all right,” Polk said with an expansive wave. “Let him babble on. It won’t change anything.”
“Yes, sir,” Hartspring said, letting go of Michael’s throat.
“I am disappointed, though,” Polk went on, talking over Michael’s choking fight to get air down his bruised windpipe.
“You are, Chief Councillor?”
“Yes. I was rather hoping you would have caught that woman of his as well. What was her name?”
“Anna Cheung Helfort, sir.”
“Yes, her. I would have enjoyed seeing the pair of them die together. So romantic-”
“You slimy son of a bitch!” Michael shouted. He hurled himself forward, arms flailing in a fruitless attempt to get free of their restraints. “I’ll fucking kill you.”
Polk laughed. “I don’t think so.” He turned to Hartspring. “Your prosecutor is taking his time,” he said.
“We need to take the time to get this right, sir. The trial is scheduled to start a week from tomorrow.”
“Humph!” Polk snorted. “It’s all taking too long, but I’ll defer to you on this one. Who’s the investigating tribune?”
“Kostakidis, sir, Marek Kostakidis.”
Polk frowned. “I don’t know him. He’s solid?”
“As a rock, sir. He was one of the tribunes who dealt with the MARFOR 8 mutineers.”
“Kostakidis … Ah, yes, I remember him now. Seemed very efficient.”
“He is, sir. But more important, he’s very precise. There’ll be no mistakes.”
“Good. We have-”
“Hey!” Michael said. “I’m still here, assholes.”
This time Hartspring did not hold back. The riding crop was raised high before slicing down, a vicious slash that laid Michael’s cheek open, blood pouring down hot into his orange coverall.
“Now look what you’ve done, Colonel,” Polk said. His voice displayed no emotion whatsoever. “You seem to have spoiled that pretty face of his.”
“My apologies, Chief Councillor,” Hartspring said. He wiped the blood from the crop and stepped back. “It won’t happen again.”
“Really? That’s a shame. I rather enjoyed watching you do that.” Polk put his face close to Michael’s. “You do know,” he said, “that I’ve told the colonel that he can do what he likes with you once the trial’s over? Yes, I think you do.” He turned back to Hartspring, wagging a finger in mock rebuke. “But you must not let him die, Colonel Hartspring … well, not until I say you can.”
“Oh, don’t worry, sir. He’ll wish he was dead, but we’ll make sure he hangs on. I’ve instructed my best interrogator to keep Helfort alive for three weeks at least.”
“I like the sound of that. And the film crew?”
“Briefed and ready to go. I think you’ll enjoy my daily reports.”
“Oh, I will.”
Michael had had enough. “So how’s the war going, Polk?” he said. “Not well last time I checked. The NRA won’t give you the three weeks Colonel Asswipe here-”
Another savage slash from the riding crop cut Michael short, but this time he expected it, twisting his head down and to one side to take the blow on his head. The pain was excruciating; the crop opened a cut deep into his scalp that send blood pouring down his neck. But it was worth it, Michael thought, staring from pain-filled eyes up into Polk’s face, worth it to see the fear on the chief councillor’s face.
“Well, well, well,” Michael said, forcing a smile through the pain, “so it’s not going well, then. Maybe you’re the one who’ll be looking at a firing squad-”
Michael was still focused on Polk when Hartspring’s fist slammed into the side of his face, the blow so powerful that he blacked out for a second.
“I don’t care about how the little bastard looks, not anymore,” Polk said to Hartspring. “I want you to hurt him. Make him scream, Colonel. Just don’t kill him. I want him in court next week, unmarked and on his feet.”
Hartspring smiled. “Yes, sir,” he said. “It’ll be my pleasure.”
Twelve hours later, Hartspring followed two DocSec troopers as they dragged the bloodied wreck that was Michael Helfort into the Gruj’s sick bay. They dumped him on the floor.
“You!” Hartspring barked at the duty medic, snapping the man out of a half doze and onto his feet. “This man is a Class A prisoner. I want him fixed up now, and if he needs to go to the hospital, then organize it. Just let me know before you move him so I can organize security.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you two,” he said to the two troopers. “You do not let Helfort out of your sight. Understood?’
“Yes, sir,” the pair chorused.
“Good. I want an update in an hour.”