Road to nowhere, Arc 4 of "Gone with the Sun"
Chapter 40 Limbus Patrum
Billy the Kid
It was too bad that the recruiters had to include Jack. On hearing that he nearly had to change pants, but toughing it out paid off. He very much did not want to be on the same ship as Jack, but anything was better than another day in the same cell as that damned Jamaican with the glittering teeth.
Finessing the dame in the whoresuit was just possible, he'd thought, pegging her as an easy mark, but five seconds had disabused him of that; those crystal eyes, so hard to meet. That class act gave the orders, the bit of fluff in white and red only shook hands then withdrew; Jack just eased back and said nowt but missed nowt. On the other hand Jack had never seen most of the prisoners on Purgatory, least of all him, so he stuck like glue to being a Silly Billy, and it seemed to work… except it didn't.
The boss went over for tea, with Jack, from the swayte thang. He couldn't hear what they said to each other but when they came back they both had a look in their eye, and he was squarely in Jack's sights. That was bad enough but the vibe from the dame was entirely different, Billy thought he'd felt death on two legs before but this was a living blade sniffing around his gonads. He kept very still while she steepled her fingers:
Well, Billy. Unfortunately we don't have room for your… specialties on the ship. But there are reconstruction projects in London and miners with caisson experience are needed for the Thames reconstruction. Would you care for that?
The hell he would.
But from the Thames how long might it take to get away? Twenty minutes, tops. He said he'd love the job, met another reject, was given a thirty-second lecture by a dangerous-looking hard man who didn't look like he believed them but would play along. Instinct said keep your bloody head down, he lived through a wild shuttle ride to a flood control repair site, drew clothes, mask. "Formal demobilisation will be at the end of shift, you get to take your first pay then."
He actually did know about caisson work, the other reject didn't and went god knew where. He'd kept his eyes open, saw the ground-effect bus embarkation point had only a down-on-his-luck shambling ex-soldier on guard, must be thirty-five, old Alliance fatigues, no insignia.
It took quarter of an hour to pick a fight in the back of an old container over spilled coffee. Finally he laid his hands on a discarded bit of pipe while the blackguard cuffed him over the head then kicked him as he was cringing. Three seconds after he spat and turned on his heel, Billy rose up, belting the bugger in the back of his head. Another minute and he had the mark's bus card and wallet. Hey, the twenty minutes is up, Billy. Must be getting slower. Older. He'd have to mug Father Time one day.
The old duffer wouldn't scan the pass, though. Just slurred 'When shift's over, wait for the guard' then got in the driver's seat. Crap. Couldn't wait. The alarm could go at any time.
Nerf the old guy, he decided, grab the bus, skip out after five minutes, hide in the City.
Billy ran up, thumped the corporal out, jumped in the seat – when the duffer bounced back up! "I don't think so, you piece of shit." For that the fool had to die. Billy pulled his shank, went superfast for the throat–
…
"Well, Billy. It is Billy, isn't it?"
A hand slapped his face. Someone had poured half a jug of Thames water over his head. Someone would pay for that, as well as the slap.
Shit, it was the hard man. He had the driver with him. Who suddenly didn't look old or shambling any more. "You bastard."
"Your insults are almost as predictable as your knife work. Can I hit him again, sir?"
"Just let's see. Don't call me sir, Toombs, you're a civilian now."
"Yes, sir."
Hard man shook his head and turned back to him. "Actually, ex-Corporal Toombs' parents were married - in the eyes of the Church, at least. Yours, I see, were not. How unfortunate. I suppose I have to take that into consideration."
"I want a lawyer."
"We are beyond lawyers at this point. You never did bother to demob before making your break, so you are still under military discipline. You know what that means, Billy?"
Oh f…
"Now, I could hold a disciplinary enquiry over the man you gave a fractured skull. If he's not dead now he will be, but I can't wait for that, I need to get back to my ship. No loss, it's true, I've been looking for a way to get rid of the psycho git for some time, and he's got a kidney compatible with a deserving kid in Suffolk. But you did whack him when he was walking away. I've got it on video. So his wife gets his pension, you go before a military tribunal on charges of assault, attempted GBH, on top of murder of another soldier in time of war, which my witness here would demand be convened immediately. Goodness, it turns out there's a sufficiently senior officer to pass sentence on the spot. That would be me. What do you think the sentence is, Billy?"
Billy knew when he was screwed. He stayed schtum.
"Or, you could accept administrative punishment, which would save me time. It means you go where I say. No choice. Orders like that don't have to have any reason at all. So if you sign here, which means accepting administrative action by the way, I'm seconding you to a labor detail. On a canal. In Russia. In theory you might get back to Blighty in ten years. Do you speak Russian, Billy?"
"Nyet."
"Good man. I'm sure you learn fast, Billy."
"I don't believe this. You're a dead man –"
The driver shoved a pistol in Billy's nostril so fast it should have broken the septum.
"Toombs."
"Please, sir, just one plop and he's in the river."
"Too much paperwork. I only want transfer paperwork on this. One last chance, Billy? Yes? Sign here… and here. Well done. One more thing, Billy."
"What?"
"You have dropped off lists of Alliance citizenship. You're now in the hands of the new Oprichniki. I mean, you're a lower-class citizen. Some sort of zek. That's something lower. Mikhailovich has expressed a need for people like you. I know you won't credit it, Billy, but while the rules I live by have been relaxed, they are still there. I'm supposed to tell you formally, Behave. Remember the Russians have enacted freedom of information statutes of a rather unusual kind."
"So?"
"It means they can scan you at any time for any reason or no reason. If, I mean when, you annoy them, they can look inside your head. They will be doing what they did with the indoctrinated, Billy. Looking for bits of you they can take out. Then replace with very clever little boxes."
"Fuck you."
"That's the spirit. Do please say that to the first chekist you meet."
Briefing for an ascent
A noise woke her in the semi-dark. The whole dormitory held a numinous charge. This had happened before. She'd never get used to the threat evaluation VI's ways of getting attention, but something was a bit off. Implant arithmetic said the lighting day-cycle was three hours away. Not time to get up. There were pools of light along the corridor, which should be black as Cronos night.
Some professional part of her always considered it odd that she could recognize her own delusions, or at least their precursor; an unaccountable nimbus of tension, recognizable as the initial stage of psychosis. This was the first time at night, though. Maybe this was simply false awakening, a lucid dream. She pinched herself. Felt real. Meant nothing. She wasn't alone in her head.
Actually, just possibly, her implants were trying to tell her something. The clink of weapons against restraint hardware told her a jailer was coming. That was real; neither uncanny, nor suspicious. Odd time for it, though. Who would she have to talk to this time? Chakwas? Last time she just sat in the background while she gave Michel a heads-up about the indoctrination bridges. Might be more of the same, but not so desperate? No, it'd be bad practice to rely on me, there's damage. More likely they're moving me out of Limbo when no other inmates can see. Good KZ-lager practice.
The clinking stopped. In its place her enhanced hearing caught a soft footfall. Better to meet this upright. She quietly slipped out of bed, already fully-clothed, another jail habit she found it hard to slip, although new clothes had appeared two days ago… including a fluffy white nightgown. The footpad stopped outside her door. She waited.
"Jana. Would you open the door please."
Lawson?
Her threat VI dated from Miranda's defection. It screamed Death and highlighted the door. Limbo limned in red. In the next 0.1s Jana tried telling the VI death was a positive outcome. It didn't seem to help. Then, If Miranda wanted revenge, the door would be splintered. 0.2s; the VI backed off a bit. And she said, Please. The VI backed off some more. Besides, Miri had quit TIM's service. Updating the personnel database took 0.4s. Door was dark, now. Her VI allowed her to key personal door access to green, 0.15s.
Lawson, indeed, in the doorway. "That took you long enough." Jana shrugged.
Some old marine immediately turned half-circle, taking station at the entrance while a younger one took up station inside, just to the left. Not Cerberus, Alliance military drill. The younger one stood at ease, hand inside a half-open jacket, eyes fixed on the far corner. Here but not here.
Jana half-turned also, indicating the chairs at her minidesk. She'd been given privileges after the indoctrination tutorial proved good, such as a larger cell of her own – and the desk. It lacked extranet but had library privileges. Whatever Lawson wanted, she'd give it, to keep that.
"Can I offer coffee, Miranda? I've got some half-decent stuff, now."
"Yes, thank you. It's a bit early for comfort."
She poured two then on impulse poured two more disposable cups, taking them to the sentries in the doorway. The old guy accepted instantly. It was fun watching the expression on the younger, as he was obliged to keep one hand on whatever was in the jacket.
Lawson actually smiled at her as she sat down. "That was naughty."
"He needs to relax."
"So do you."
"Worst has already happened. I'm relaxed."
"Tell it to the machine in your ghost."
"I do, I do, all the time."
Lawson leaned back. "Are you comfortable here?"
"Things have improved. Were you responsible for the new clothes?"
"I approved it. The idea came from someone else. It was Chloe who organized the coffee machine and the library link."
"Thank you. Thank them, too." A brief pause ensued.
"You're looking good, Miranda. Not so… wound up."
"That's odd. I have my own ship, now, and crew."
"Ah. But that's a load you take on for yourself, you see. Easier to bear."
"Very true. Have to say, Jana, you look dreadful."
"I've hung a jacket over the mirror in the closet."
"Do you sleep?"
"Electrophysiologically, no."
Miranda put down her cup.
"Would you like to?"
A harrowing experience
It took five minutes to get the attention of the captain in out-processing, who at least was polite. Ten more to call the warder, who wouldn't release the prisoner. Three minutes to let Hackett know, five to get confirmation from Coats that release was authorized.
"You can wait till office hours, dammit," said the Warder.
"There's a reason for the time. The Colonel gave you an order, Major." said Lawson, whose mood was getting as dark as her skinsuit.
"Too bad, he can give it to me in–"
The warder did not finish the sentence. Being face down on the floor with a gun to the back of his head was a significant impediment.
"You are under arrest."
"On what charge!?"
Zabaleta took two steps, removed the warder's card, comm pin, and omnitool. He wasn't packing a gun. Lawson called up armed guard at the primary exit from Normandy, then:
"Failure to obey the order of a superior officer in time of military emergency or war."
"We've beaten the Reapers!"
Toombs, who had read the signs, was covering the captain, frozen at his console with his mouth forming an O. Clearly not combat personnel. Williams was telling Lawson, "With pleasure." Zabaleta nudged Toombs, assuming cover duty.
"Funny, that. The Council in its wisdom hasn't rescinded the state of siege. Captain, the Warder is relieved; you are designated in charge. If you would, the gate."
"And if I wouldn't?"
Miranda gave no response at all, just waited. This meant a count of five. The captain worked it out in time.
"All right, already, I'm opening!"
The open gate revealed a platoon of Normandy marines covering the exit. At no time had there been any warning; this meant they had the approach codes. Zabaleta saw the out-processing captain working this out. A lieutenant and sergeant of marines marched through in quickstep. Zabaleta's cue.
"Lieutenant, your troop will take the Warder in custody. Compliments to Commander Williams, the Admiral desires that he be taken to London in irons for trial and eventual disposal, I mean disposition."
"Sir."
"Don't call me sir, Lieutenant, I'm only a gunnery CPO." Is it the civilian clothes? The warder began progressing through the gate, destination a Normandy cargo bay restraint.
"I wasn't aware there were Alliance men on Overlord, gunny." Zabaleta, with an eye on the files of Alliance and Hierarchy marines, responded:
"There's a security troop, Lieutenant, for the Alliance gear in the hold."
Lawson and Toombs passed the gate on either side of the prisoner, scratch that, the medic. The lieutenant nodded. Zabaleta took his pistol out of the captain's face. Saluted. Waited, fingers twitching over holstered gun, till receiving a nervous salute in return.
"Then there's me. I'm the admirals' eyes and ears."
"Very well. If you don't mind, sir, you're the OIC to us." Zabaleta shook his head, and made his own way through the gate. Vakarian and Williams were approaching at a leisurely pace. Lawson seemed happier:
"Sorry this took so long. That's twice now, Garrus. Thanks."
"Better late than never," drawled Vakarian. "Williams here called me in."
"Thanks, Ash. You came through, Spectre, just on my hunch. Last time we had a warder problem, we shot him."
Vakarian inclined his head. This was their second warder? Jesus. Anyway, the boss seemed to have things under control. Zabaleta jogged on ahead, but Vakarian stopped the escort troop:
"A moment, please, lieutenant."
"Sir."
Sympathy for the devil
Vakarian later wondered why he'd addressed the warder at all. Palaven had never lost the hierarchy the way even the most advanced human cultures had lost their jurisprudence. Even if that had happened on Palaven, turian culture hardly ever produced idiots in the wrong place. Yet he felt some twinge of sympathy, unlike anything on Purgatory.
"Prisoner, do you have a family?"
The (ex-) warder, still stunned, said: "Ahm… yes?"
"Son, I was a cop once."
Zabaleta, overhearing, found that interesting.
"You learn things no law course on criminal justice will teach. Right now you're caught up in crime control. Do you imagine you will get on the due process leg of the criminal justice system? There are no police anymore, anywhere except the Citadel; even C-Sec is mostly military. Earthside judges were indoctrinated, one and all. Every single member of the NAS and System Alliance Supremes has been shot, for example, along with most of the lawyers, worldwide. I know some human nations like Japan get by with very few lawyers, as we do on Palaven, but NAS had a lot of lawyers – nearly a third of the congress and senate were lawyers. Those bodies are now inquorate. So, legislation is regulation. Except for the UK and its realms. Regulation and crime control are done in general by the military hierarchy, just like turians, and I know which generals are doing it. What does that mean for due process?"
"There isn't any?"
"No. Even for turians, the distinction exists. But it has a different flavor. You will at some point have a chance to step off the sausage machine. One chance. The Normandy is carrying flag officers who will review your case before transfer to the civil authority in London. Pray it's Admiral Hannah Shepard who deals with you. Do I have your attention?"
"Yes… General."
"Good. Listen for something like these words: 'Do you want a hearing, or will you accept administrative action?' Got that?"
"Yes."
"Good. If you want to see your family any time in the next ten years, do not make excuses. Do not insist on your 'human' rights. They no longer exist, if they ever did, there's a lot of heated debate among criminologists about that, for one thing turians don't have the concept and for asari it means different things. In any event, all the theories still come back to crime control versus due process, and fleet admirals aren't interested in common-law theory. Just take what she gives you, and tell her the facts. She won't be interested in your subjective justifications. Clear? Tell her what happened, and ask for the camera roll, because trust me, Lawson will have had the cameras rolling."
"General… what can I expect?"
"If you're very lucky… wait, did you have advance hard notice of the transfer?"
"There was a flimsy two days ago. But I didn't hear about the prison visit till last night."
"Did the transfer note mention a time?"
"Yeah. But it had to be a mistake. Next thing, this civilian waltzed up with the prisoner…"
"Was she still a prisoner? Did the note say pardoned?"
The Warden stopped to think. The flimsy had spoken of…Cerberus doctor to be released on her own recognizance…
"Not in so many words. But it said she could go."
"Then throw yourself on the mercy of the tribunal, son. You've done what college professors, legislators, mayors, even kings and presidents have done before you. You've exceeded your authority. In your case, in the face of a direct order from a superior flag officer."
"Oh… crap."
"But maybe, just maybe, the Admiral won't act like the machine which law aims to be. You will get one call. Don't call a lawyer, JAG will appoint one if you need it. Call your wife, ask her to call the Admiral. Clear?"
"Yes. General."
"You won't get an answer, but she will hear about the call. What she does with that will depend on you. And your attitude."
"Sir."
"I'm not Sir, to you. Spirits go with you. Go now. Call your wife."
Next chapter: #41, "Between worlds"
Saturday, July 25, 2015