I am unsure of our action in this regard, Michelle admitted. The Corps is gone by now. We cannot undo that even if we wished. If my father has been incarcerated, should we act?
Have you an emotional attachment to this? Thomas asked. He was the oldest of them by barely a pair of years. Also the weakest. But he had been a leader among the “Lost Boys” from the beginning and still retained a vestige of that position.
I find myself torn, yes, Michelle admitted. However, it is less that he is my father and Clan Leader than that the Darhel are in breach of numerous contracts and obligations. If they are willing to become this high-handed, how can any of us trust the Contract. Most of us still labor under contract. If the Darhel have thrown off the Rules, what is to keep them from acting with complete arbitrariness?
Can we convince a Clan Leader to submit his appeal? Chan asked. This would both teach the Darhel the danger of breaking contracts and, potentially, save your father’s life. On a purely personal level, it would place the Darhel in a position of being unable to fulfill their part of our contracts, thus freeing us.
Unlikely, Koko replied. Any clan doing so would be Called in a moment. It would be suicide for the entire clan.
The vast majority of the first Fleet had been drawn from European and North American sources. Thus most of the children sent into exile had been from America, Britain and Germany. Koko Takawashi and Kang Chan were the only two mentats not from such countries. Indeed, all but two of the others were from the former United States. It had been debated, given the disparity, if Japanese and Chinese might make better Sohon adepts naturally. Thus far there was insufficient data. Given that the Race of Han had been severely reduced during the War, as had the Japanese, it might not ever be resolved.
I believe there may be one, Michelle thought, But the moment the Darhel heard of the appeal, they would terminate my father. I am unsure why they have not done so already.
I see the hand of Tir Dal Ron in that one, Thomas thought with just a note of emotion in his telepathic communication. He enjoys watching individuals suffer.
Being the mentat with the most experience of that particular Tir, he would know.
There is a concept, Ermintrude thought. The sole English mentat’s mind was clearly racing. The Darhel cannot kill him if he is not available to them.
“So you want our help again?” Cally said.
“It would be obvious if the Sohon acted directly,” Michelle replied. “And I, of course, must keep a very respectable distance. This is the last contact we shall have until resolution of this crisis. If you see Father and he asks of me tell him that I hold him as dead, as Galactic law decrees. I shall resolve this issue when I see him at last.”
“So what’s the plan?” Cally asked.
“The first part you will not care for,” Michelle said. “You must be patient.”
“I’m not good with patient,” Cally said. “How patient?”
“It will be nearly a year before we can act.”
“That’s okay,” Cally said. “I can spend the time killing Darhel.”
“And you must not do that.”
“Oh, we are so going to have to talk ‘when this issue is resolved.’ ”
Mike opened his eyes and blinked, gummily. His mouth felt like someone had stuffed it with cotton. Damned Hiberzine.
Hiberzine was only one of a number of amazing drugs the Galactics had brought with them. One dose would put a person down for a half a year with no ill effects. They could even be in conditions of minimal oxygen for a few months. He’d once been damned near ripped in half and left under the sea for weeks. Between his suits undergel and Hiberzine he’d survived.
One dose was fine. But after a half a year even with the best nannites working their little biomechanical asses off you got sort of dehydrated. Push it any further and you got really dehydrated. He’d been down longer than half a year.
“Fuckers could have given me a damned IV,” he muttered.
He was manacled to the wall of a cell. Whoever had given him the antidote had apparently beat feet afterwards. All he had were four plasteel walls, a cot, a table and a sink/toilet combination. Oh, and a bottle of water. How thoughtful.
He drank the bottle of water in one go then dragged his chain to the sink and filled it again. Three drains and it was time to take a very long piss.
Grey walls, orange jump-suit. Not much to work with. He contemplated the steel chain and the plasteel wall. Plasteel was about ten times the strength of standard carbon steel. Oh, well, either the chain would get worn out or he’d cut his way into the next room. Which was probably another cell. He set to rubbing one link of the chain on the wall, over and over. Molecule by molecule the steel started to fleck away. At this rate he’d be into the next cell in about a century but nobody was quite sure how long a life rejuv gave you so what the hell.
He wasn’t sure how long it was till the door opened. Food had appeared out of an unexpected slot in the far wall at one point. He’d taken a dump and a couple of pisses, filled and drained his water bottle several times, taken a nap, worn one face of the steel link shiny and made an almost unnoticeable groove in the wall. Say a day or two. Hell, he’d once laid in his suit in total EMCON and underground for longer than that. If you couldn’t handle sensory deprivation and boredom, ACS was no place for you.
They’d sent six guards with stunners. For all he knew there were more in the corridor beyond. One of them was unarmed, he just held the shackles.
None of them were, individually, all that big. Fleet mostly drew from Indonesia and Southeast Asia; their personnel didn’t run to tall.
Mike wasn’t tall, either, but he was broad as a house. He’d been a work-out freak since before he’d ever heard of the Posleen and fifty years as an officer hadn’t changed anything. He might not be the biggest runner in the world, but he could lift an ACS suit with one hand, which was right at the strain gauge of the human muscles and bones involved. He figured that even with the stunners he could probably take down four or so, if he hadn’t been chained to the wall.
So he just held out his arms to be shackled.
He was lead down empty corridors to a room very much like the one he’d been sitting in. There were four differences. No toilet or sink, which wasn’t going to be good if this went on too long. There was a video monitor on the wall. The table was bigger and had two seats. And there was a Fleet Commander sitting in one of the chairs.
Mike was frog-marched to the far chair, seated in it and shackled down, hard. He could barely move his arms or legs.
“Michael Leonidas O’Neal,” the Commander said without preamble. “Lieutenant General, Fleet Strike. Serial Number 216-29-1145. Entered Fleet Strike from the state of Georgia in the nation of the United States, Earth. Is all of that correct?”
Mike just looked at him. The Commander had more of a Chinese look than Indonesian. But it was unlikely he was directly descended from the Mainland given what had happened there. His uniform had his rank tabs but no nametag.
“Mr. O’Neal I am your defense counsel in this matter,” the Commander said. “I am to present your defense in this court martial. It would be helpful if you at least answered my questions.”