It had all been advertised as so simple, so necessary. Capturing Ibis Island, repelling the treacherous Borginians; all he had to do, they'd all said, was do his job and it would all be revealed. Well, it had been revealed, and now all he wanted to do was escape back to the life he'd had, but there was no going back. He might have been a poor fit for a raid team, but at least he was able to sleep at night in those days.
The atmosphere on Ibis Island could only be described as oppressive. After the first and only assault by the Borginian fleet they'd received the news from their own ships: Alvernia was under siege from within, and everyone from local dissidents to foreign rebels to traitorous officers had made their declaration of rebellion. He'd sat there with the rest of them, holding that island for reasons they didn't understand against enemies they couldn't see, dealing with poor supplies, searing heat, overcrowded halls, and increasingly tense relations between the senior officers and the rest of them.
That was difficult enough, but it was only after the state funeral for the fifty soldiers who'd been killed earlier than month that he'd realised why they were still there. Nobody had openly said anything at first, but it wasn't hard to see through the official explanations. Colonel Anton Royce and all his men, including all of them who'd never even met the man, had been all but declared traitors. Their exile to Ibis Island was intended to be permanent, and they were all to be punished for his actions. That didn't do much to improve morale, but there wasn't anything to be done about that.
Rick's job hadn't seemed nearly as urgent after that news, but he kept at it anyway just to keep himself focused. Regina had been declared an enemy of the state, and he hadn't even heard from Gail. It had kept him up on more nights than one, just trying to understand why anyone would target her so specifically. News was hard to come by on the island; the destruction of the communications area meant they had to receive on the fleet and then transmit that information to the facility's computers.
With Borginia refusing to attack again and nothing else to do but wait for Royce or Anders to give them some hope, most of the staff not actively defending the facility spent the days trying to distract themselves from their hopeless situation. Floor B3 was still the least populated despite its size, and it hadn't taken long for Rick to set up his makeshift home in the most remote part of the floor, one of the safest rooms in the entire facility and the place leading to the stored components for the Third Energy generator. Rick was one of the few to understand their importance, and he was careful to keep it that way, but after the first week Dylan had asked to join him claiming he couldn't stand the noise upstairs.
He felt someone shake his shoulder and looked away from the array of screens before him. His eyes ached as if he'd been awake for a week but, for all he knew, he really had been awake for a week. Time slipped away in the tunnels, and one day blended into the next without the slightest hint. Cold steel and sterile light were his surroundings; there was no easy way to differentiate between night and day other than by looking at a clock, though the vivid meaning of three in the morning or five in the afternoon seemed less so the longer he stayed underground. How Edward Kirk managed years on the island without going insane was beyond his knowledge.
"Did you hear a single word of what I just said?" a frustrated voice said to his left. Dylan was standing there in his full armour, a rifle strapped to his back.
"Uh, sorry about that. I was a bit…"
Dylan waved his excuses off. "Forget it. I'm needed on the first floor for a while, but you seem pretty out of it. You want me to send someone down?"
Rick smiled at that, but it was a faint smile. "No, I'll be fine. I might go see how our guest is doing."
"What you need to do is sleep, but it's your life. Just don't let her take advantage of you while you're like this."
Rick nodded at the computer screen as the door closed with a gentle thud behind the other man. The woman he'd captured in the attack was the only diversion left to him. They'd captured three saboteurs, and Rick had been given the task of interrogating the one who'd nearly killed him. He wasn't easy to scare, but memories of that frenzied attack in the communications room filled his head at the slightest opportunity. He'd never been closer to dying.
He turned off the entire array of screens. After a month of working he'd done just about all he could with the facility's security systems; lately his work on the system had mostly been done as a habit, something to keep his mind occupied. He'd installed an auto-alarm that tracked the entire security system and notified him of any intrusions, but even that was done from boredom.
The transport hall outside the special weapon storage area was deserted as usual, but he heard movement in the U-shaped storage corridor next to the rooms he'd chosen to live in. It was the natural choice of location for a prison: a small dead end of a room only accessible through a laser shutter. She had privacy behind the back wall and they could pass meals and supplies through the shutter, at least if they were small enough. It occurred to him early on that a facility full of despairing soldiers ought to be kept away from a vulnerable enemy prisoner, especially an attractive woman who'd killed several of their most respected comrades. He'd seen what desperation could make men do more than once while part of Gail's team.
"Hey, Rick, you're not leaving too?" a voice called from behind the shutters.
He hesitated as he always did and walked over to the shutter. She was sitting on a box just behind the shutter as usual, long black hair hiding her expression. Rick wasn't suited to be a jailer and they'd both figured it out within the first week. He'd never believed intimidation or violence would get anything other than lies and hate from someone like her away; fortunately Dylan agreed with his soft methods. After a month the pretence had all but dropped entirely.
"No," he answered. He'd intended to go upstairs, or so he'd told himself, but he always ended up sitting with Dylan and this woman for hours. After Royce's arrival and the news that came with it their identities as military officials seemed irrelevant.
"Good. You ever been in a cell? You might not have tortured me, but the boredom's doing that for you," she said, leaning forward with her head resting in the palm of her hand.
"I've been in a cell for a long time," he replied, voice soft as if he were speaking to himself.
She stared, but his eyes were fixed on the shelving behind her head. What did it even matter if he wasn't treating his role as interrogator seriously? If he'd been lied to his entire life, why should he treat the Borginians are enemies? They were in the same position as he was.
"I suppose you have," she replied, leaving it at that. Rick collapsed into one of two chairs just outside the shutters and leaned his head back against the cold steel wall.
He knew her name, or at least she said it was Melissa Weaver. Lived in a city on the eastern coast of Borginia and was only a year younger than Rick. There was no real reason to believe any of that, but perhaps Rick wasn't his real name either. Sometimes it was hard to remember just who you were. He knew her job description because it was almost identical to his own. He had a fairly solid grasp on her personality and motives. None of that was reliable, but that wasn't too important. None of his friends had ever been entirely honest about themselves, so why should he expect any more from his enemies?
More important was her knowledge of Borginia. Most of the information Rick knew concerning their rival nation was little more than propaganda, but she could speak of her home for hours on end. It was an effective way to ease the tension, anyway. The technology and building techniques used in the research facility were a great deal more impressive than the stone and brick favoured in Alvernia, and she claimed that was becoming the standard for Borginia.
"You think you're going to die here, don't you?" Melissa asked, referencing their hopeless situation. Rick hadn't bothered hiding it, but he still wouldn't look at her. Reminded him too much of himself, and of Regina. It always took him a few minutes to get over that.
He shrugged. "Either we wait here and die or we attack and die. You'll probably be fine if Borginia ever bothers to attack."
Melissa snorted in derision. "Yeah, they make it anywhere near here and I'll get a bullet to the head. I know how it works."
Rick's fist clenched. "I'm not going to let that happen."
She laughed, and he heard the mockery and ignored it. "You don't make any sense, you know that? I was going to kill you, but don't think it would have bothered me to do it. What's it to you if some meathead shoots me?"
"You don't deserve to die and I'm sick of seeing people killed for nothing when I could have done saved them. What you'd do in my place is irrelevant."
"You're a real hero, huh? Well, if you've got a point to prove I won't stop you," she said, rising to her feet and pacing the small entrance. "You sure I can't get a jacket? Even some shoes would be nice if you won't turn the air conditioning off. I'll be less likely to try and escape again if my feet aren't frozen."
"At least you've got somewhere to escape to. And I'll see what I can do about the clothes, but they don't want me giving you anything. You're a security risk. Maybe they think you'll hang yourself, I don't really know." He was beginning to feel more like himself. Computers were his life's work, but he'd always needed the company of people. Gail used to consider it a weakness, but they'd rarely agreed on anything. Even so, he knew he was too harsh on Gail. Despite their differences, the older man rarely stopped him doing what he thought was right.
"I'm a security risk? I've been meaning to ask, what happened to the others you captured in that raid? There had to be more than just me. Did they hang themselves?"
He couldn't bring himself to answer. Low supplies and a lack of useability, not to mention a lack of space, had given Lieutenant Colonel Anders all the justification needed to execute them, though officially they'd died while fighting. The other two saboteurs had been sent to the fleet weeks before, and that was the last he'd heard of them.
"Yeah, I figured as much. I'm the only one left?"
He nodded. Why bother denying it?
She sat back down with a dejected sigh. "You intervened to keep me alive? Why bother? Still, thanks for trying. I'll try to return the favour if they ever capture you. And if I'm not dead before then. Not much help, is it?"
Rick couldn't quite laugh, but he managed a smile. He finally realised why he'd spent so much time down here. Her mannerisms, her personality, both reminded him of his time in the academy with Regina. An escape to the past was just what he needed.
And just like with Regina, it was a façade that could vanish in an instant. She ran a hand through her hair, staring at the wall behind Rick. "You know, we all knew the risks, but never really believed we'd ever die. There were five of us, and now it's just me," Melissa murmured, almost as if she couldn't believe it was true.
Rick understood all too well. "There were five of us, and now it's just me," he repeated.
She knew what he was, but he'd never admitted that he was the last of the team. Tom and Cooper were long dead, Regina a fugitive, and Gail… well, he didn't know what to make of Gail. They could take care of themselves, at least. He'd always envied how comfortable they were with being alone.
"What would Borginia have done?"
That confused her, at least for a moment, but the moment of vulnerability had vanished as if it had never been there. "With the prisoners, you mean? Standard policy is to keep them and trade for our own. Not that we get in half as many wars as you do. I might have tried to kill you, but you weren't a prisoner, and that other guy with the really grey eyes nearly stuck a knife into my stomach before you showed up. What happened to him anyway?"
It was a question he'd often considered, but there was no way to know. Major Harper had spent two days in the hospital, but he was gone by the end of the first week that passed. They'd spoken briefly and Rick had given him a message for Regina if he saw her. He'd wanted to tell her so much more than he had, but entrusting a man he hardly knew with sensitive information was an absurd idea.
"He's probably dead. Nobody's heard from any of the officers left in the city for a month, including him," Rick said, slowly and deliberately. He could never be sure, but felt uncomfortable even hinting that Regina had probably been killed.
They both remained silent for a moment, concerned only with their own thoughts. The low hum of machinery and the laser shutters filled the otherwise silent passage, but their respite was soon interrupted by the grind of the transport shutter rolling up, filling the passage with a metallic echo.
Dylan ducked under the door and waved at them as he approached carrying a bag. The passage filled with the smell of spices and garlic, drawing Melissa's attention instantly and, despite his lethargy, Rick had to admit he needed to eat.
"You're back?" Rick asked as the other man took the other seat. "I didn't know it was time for lunch already."
Dylan glanced at the prisoner and the two of them seemed to be restraining laughter. "Rick, you know it just hit midnight, right? Lunch?"
"Are you sure about that? I could have sworn," he began, but he stopped protesting after Dylan threw his watch over. "Right. Guess I lost track of time," he admitted, rubbing the back of his head in embarrassment.
"A bowl of lentil curry will fix that. That's all that's on the menu for the next three days," Dylan said, using both hands to carefully slide a container through the laser shutter without burning himself.
"Who's complaining? Your chef knows what spices are; how rare is that?" Melissa asked, sitting back on the makeshift seat with her share of their late dinner. Late night dinners on floor B3 had become a ritual for Rick and Dylan. Both men appreciated the company and the chance to escape the noise and mess on the floors above. They were also the only two allowed access to the prisoner, a request granted by the lieutenant colonel as a favour for their support. To keep it that way Rick had modified the laser shutters, disconnecting them from the main network and ensuring only he and Dylan could open them.
"How's it going upstairs?" Rick asked as they ate.
"Same as usual. Everybody's pissed off and nobody knows what to do. Anders and Royce have been locked up in that lecture hall all night, and you can imagine the rumours. You know half the men and plenty of the women in this facility have had their eyes on her for months."
"She's your boss, right? Or one of them. What's the appeal?" their guest asked. She'd finished half the curry before Rick had even touched his.
"Well," Dylan replied, listing points on his fingers, "she's powerful, attractive, ambitious, and dangerous. I think that's enough to get the fantasies started."
"She's also completely amoral. I don't think she cares for anything or anyone, and that includes us," Rick said, his recently acquired disdain for their leader obvious to both of them.
"How else do you think she made it to lieutenant colonel before thirty-five? She and Royce might hate central command for a lot of things, but not for sexism. Even General Hereson couldn't stop praising her up after the way she handled those territory disputes in the north."
Rick knew all too well how she'd handled them. He'd taken the opportunity to learn as much about his commanders as possible, and he wasn't fond of what he'd learned. "That's enough about her," he muttered, looking through the shutters. She looked back, the details of her face obscured by the bright red beams separating them.
"Is sexism a problem in Borginia?" he asked. Learning what differentiated their nations was fascinating, and he'd likely never have a better opportunity.
She shook her head. "Not really, no. At least not openly."
"What about poverty?"
"It exists, but not like you said it does where you come from. You're not left to starve if you can't work, anyway. Extreme wealth or poverty are pretty rare, I think."
"Rick, I'm too tired to get into politics again," Dylan interrupted. "We'd be better off trying to find a way out of here. Forget it all and start over somewhere new. Neither of us is on a wanted poster yet."
It was something they'd joked about more than once. In particular he'd thought of returning to Merestan and finding Regina. He owed her that much, especially if, as often occurred to him in his darkest moments, his prying into classified information and asking her to help was the excuse they'd used to condemn her.
"What would you do if you did leave?" Rick asked, looking at his friend's grave expression.
Inexplicably enough, Dylan laughed at that. "I don't have the first idea. My entire life I've been told what to do. Might be nice to have the freedom to find out, but what do I know about that? How about you?"
"I don't think I would leave. There's nothing for me out there."
Dylan stood up and stretched. He could never sit still for long. "So why stay? Why bother fighting for… what?"
Rick shrugged again, unwilling to answer. He didn't really have an answer. "And you?" he asked, looking through the bright red beams. "Why do you fight?"
Melissa spoke again, the bitterness in her voice startling them both. "Figures that none of you would even be able to guess. How about when the fighting started over the rights to the islands in the central sea? Your people wanted mining rights and to use them as a military outpost, but we wouldn't allow it."
"I was just a kid when that happened," Dylan objected. "They said your people were hostile from the start, refusing to even negotiate. One of our most respected diplomats was assassinated when he tried."
"How could we be hostile? Borginia's an island nation without even a fifth of the population of your country. We didn't even try to fight back, but it didn't matter to them. Even the suggestion of resistance was enough justification."
"Enough justification for what?"
Rick raised his hand, interrupting them both. He really was more exhausted than he'd ever been in his life. "I know what happened. Gail was there, and I saw it when I read his file." And it was true. After a particularly memorable show of callousness on a mission, Rick had stolen his file from the SORT servers to try and understand why he was so harsh.
Dylan looked between the two of them. "What are you saying, Rick?"
"We couldn't just invade without reason, but the rights to the islands were disputed. So they sent SORT teams to each island to kill and sabotage until they couldn't take it anymore. Before long the people rioted, blaming us for the murders despite their lack of proof," he replied, rubbing his eyes to avoid looking at either of them.
"And that's when they said we couldn't keep the peace, that we didn't have the ability to control land so far from our shores. They lined up every second person and shot them, and the rest were little better than slaves. We hadn't done anything, but it didn't matter," she continued, voice almost emotionless while she gazed into the steel wall.
Dylan fell back into his seat, face twisted into a grimace. "Only a monster would come up with such a plan."
"You are fortunate to still think that way," a quiet voice said from the right. A tall man stood just past the half-open door, one hand in the pocket of his jacket. His muscular frame was decidedly leaner than it had been when they'd first met and his expression was less sure, but it still conveyed an unmistakable air of authority. A woman stood behind, stern and silent.
Dylan rose to his feet immediately and threw a salute. Rick couldn't be bothered, so he remained in the seat.
"Rick, who is it?" Melissa asked, craning her head to see past the shutters and burning off a lock of hair in the process.
Anton Royce joined them by the shutter. "How should I answer that?" He looked at Dylan and hesitated, glancing back at the woman who'd followed him in. "There's no benefit in hiding it. I'm your monster, Lieutenant Morton."
"You can't be serious," Dylan said, taking a step back toward the shutter.
"I've rarely been more serious. I was there, and I'm as much to blame for that atrocity as any of the men who carried it out. Would you like me to describe the details? Your young friend can confirm their accuracy, I suspect."
"Don't bother. And you have the nerve to claim you're working to change the world for the better?" Rick asked, rising to his feet and looking at the man he'd once hoped felt as he did. His hand trembled at his side and the woman at the entrance stepped forward with her pistol raised.
"On the contrary, it is precisely because I have seen and done what I have that I understand why our society cannot be allowed to remain as it is." Royce replied, losing his authoritative tone for the first time.
"Remove your weapons," the woman ordered. Rick did so, placing his pistol on the floor, but Melissa's hand twisted itself through the shutter and snatched Dylan's handgun from its holster before pushing him back. She hissed in pain and Rick saw a burned patch of skin on her forearm.
Anders attempted to pull the Colonel away from the shutter, but he resisted and remained where he was.
"You were there. You know what we did. You have the right to kill me, but I'm only a symptom of the disease," he said, his pale blue eyes meeting her intense glare without flinching.
"I always pictured you as a monster, but you're not so frightening in person," she said, speaking as if only to herself. "Maybe it's worse that you're just a man." The pistol was halfway off the floor, but Anders was sure to kill her the moment she raised the gun.
"The worst monsters are men. Still, in my defence I was a young lieutenant at the time, and I didn't expect it to become what it did. I do vividly recall how spontaneous it all was. None of us went in intending to massacre half the population, but once it started nobody raised their voice in protest. It operated like a well-oiled machine, not a collection of individuals. It always is."
"So what did you expect, murderer?"
He thought about that for a moment. "At the time, very little. Soldiers do as they're told, yes? It was only after I'd stained myself with that atrocity and more that I realised it couldn't continue. Strange as it is, I'd hoped to use the power with which I'd been rewarded to implement those changes, power earned through more massacres than that."
Rick stared at him in a new light. "I don't know how you can go on if you sat back and let that happen."
"I confess, I did consider taking my own life more than once, but it seemed a waste of resources. If every man who despises our way of doing things kills himself, who's left to fight against it?"
"Drop the weapon, Borginian," Anders ordered, her voice even firmer than before.
She looked between the four of them, eyes wild and desperate. Royce waited silently, face completely calm. Dylan stood by the wall as if paralysed; he had so little experience with problems that he could do nothing to fix.
Rick turned around and looked at the miserable woman before him. "Killing an unarmed, repentant man makes you no better than he was." he said to her. "What do you think it's going to change?"
The look in her face as she held that gun, debating whether to raise it and shoot Royce even if it meant her death, would never him. Her hands shook for a moment, but she made her decision, throwing the weapon to the floor and falling back onto the seat with her head in her hands. It disgusted him that anyone could be forced into such a situation. Dylan reached under the last beam and dragged it back, his face red from embarrassment.
Royce's gaze shifted to Rick. "It's an ideal I've never been able to live by, but I do believe you're right."
"Now that the young lady has made her decision, one perhaps more merciful than I deserved," he continued, "I think it's time that I tried to live up to my reputation. I have a plan. But it's not going to work without her help." He pointed at Melissa, who stared back in disbelief.
"You're surprised? We're trapped between a Borginian fleet and Hereson's promise to kill us all should we attempt a return to Alvernia. Hereson will never reconsider his decision, and it seems all my friends in Merestan have been lined up and shot, or at the very best are hiding in some tunnel where they'll be of no use to anyone. Therefore we must turn to Borginia. For that I need to give them a reason to believe we are not the monsters they so clearly believe we are." He said it as if it was obvious, and Rick had to admit there weren't many alternatives.
"And what reason is that?" she asked, alternating between uncontrollable staring at the Colonel and averting his gaze entirely.
"Well, we're not really Alvernian soldiers anymore, are we? We're traitorous rebels who want to overthrow the system." He shrugged. "You've been well-treated by these two, I presume? The lieutenant colonel tells me they've been very protective, and you must realise there are many soldiers who'd have handled your imprisonment in an entirely different manner, one not to your benefit. You two are perfect representatives of the culture I want to encourage," Royce said, clapping Dylan on the shoulder.
"When I asked them to interrogate her I didn't expect them to be quite so pleasant, but it does seem to have worked," Anders said.
"Of course it has. Torture and cruelty doesn't get you honesty and cooperation, and those are what we need. I thought we agreed your methods would soften? You're not on the northern border anymore."
Anders' blank face twitched as if she was annoyed, but she said nothing.
"Why should I lift a finger to help you?" Melissa asked, shooting a filthy look at Anders. Rick could hardly blame her there; for all Royce's talk, his choice of second-in-command was inexplicable.
"If you could convince them to meet with me, I may be able to negotiate an alliance against Alvernian command. Without your support, I suppose we'll all have to wait here until starvation or bullets finish us off. It's entirely up to you." Royce sat down in Dylan's abandoned seat, crossed his legs, and waited.
It didn't take much more than that. She agreed to speak to the fleet commander on his behalf and arrange a meeting at the very least. Rick wasn't particularly surprised. None of them had much hope of leaving alive without the help of that fleet, and that included her.
After her agreement to work with him, at least on that, Royce stood back up. He'd got what he wanted, clearly. "I'll return tomorrow once some of the details have been arranged. I apologise for this, but you'll have to remain a prisoner officially. There are likely several spies who would notice your freedom, and that could ruin everything." He turned away and ducked his head under the exit shutter before turning back. "Oh, and I appreciate that you didn't shoot me. Morton, could I have a word?"
Dylan holstered his stolen pistol, met Rick's eyes and shrugged as he left to follow Royce.
He stood at the entrance with Anders and watched them leave. Being alone with her always made him uncomfortable. "This all comes down to her," Anders said, her cold gaze focused directed on Rick. She spoke softly enough that only he could hear. "And you."
"What do you mean me?" Rick asked in a whisper. "I'm just the tech guy, nothing more."
"Don't pretend you don't understand me. You haven't spent a month with this girl for nothing. She won't admit it, but she considers you a friend. Anybody in her position would cling onto someone like you for support, and so she has. Do not let that go to waste," Anders said. She left the same way Royce and Dylan did without another word.
Rick stood for some time after they left, but the exhaustion caught up and he sank down against the cold wall. It wasn't much, but for the first time in a month he saw the slightest reason for hope. He'd always wished he could do something to change his country, to fix the rot that infested everything from its leaders to its culture. Now he'd been given the chance and he didn't know if he could. It'd always been much cleaner in his dreams, much less difficult to determine who was right and what had to be done.
Before long true tiredness set in and he found himself struggling to stay awake. It was a hopeless struggle, but he managed to stumble back into the storage room before collapsing on his makeshift bed under the cool blue light.