Изменить стиль страницы

The warden removed the baton from the reader and handed it back. "Where did you obtain the bank disk, Orduval Strone?"

"From my bank—where else?"

"So the account is yours?"

"It certainly is."

"But we have evidence connecting this account to…another."

"My pseudonym."

The younger warden seemed unable to contain himself upon hearing this. "Then you are…Uskaron?"

"Shaddup, Trausheim," said the older one, but it was too late. The name was repeated at nearby tables and rippled out in excited whispers. People further away began to stand up. Suddenly Orduval understood: the wardens were here to control the city riots, and had suddenly been sent to a crowded bar to apprehend someone who had now become something of a legend.

"Please stand up and come with us," said the older warden.

Orduval wasn't so sure he could stand at that moment, his legs felt too shaky. "One moment." He drained his glass, then tried to force inner calm upon himself.

Looking at his companion, the older one said, "Now."

Trausheim seemed reluctant, but obeyed. The two of them moved to either side of Orduval and hauled him to his feet. His chair went over with a crash as they hurried him from his table and over to the stairs.

"Hey!" someone shouted.

He glimpsed another of the wardens shoving a woman back down into her seat. Orduval's feet could not seem to find the steps, but no matter, since the two men were nearly carrying him anyway. More customers were rising, and a large group of people had begun arguing with some of the wardens.

"That's Uskaron!" A shout followed from the gallery as the other wardens piled down the stairs, quickly pushing customers out of the way. Then they had their captive out into the street, and being hustled into an armoured car. He glimpsed a crowd pouring out of the teahouse behind him as armoured doors closed and the vehicle pulled away.

"I'm sorry we had to do it like this," said the older warden, turning to his younger companion. "Trausheim, I recollect giving a specific order that no one was to mention that name."

"I'm sorry, sir, it was just…"

"Yeah." He turned back to Orduval. "Are you really…Uskaron?"

Orduval leant back in the padded seat. "Yes, I am."

"Why here, now?"

"Part providence, but mainly because I have some…" Orduval frowned, not entirely sure what he intended to do now, since certainly his chances of getting to see Yishna now were remote"… some research to conduct," he finished.

"Into what?"

"That being my business."

"Well, before you can go about your business, you've got some explanations to make."

"Who to?"

"Chairman Duras."

McCrooger

The weird perceptual effects I was experiencing seemed to fade in and out, as if they originated from beyond the ship and then sometimes something about my surroundings managed to block them. But though these nightmares were weak, they also sometimes slid into my consciousness while I was awake. Occasionally the feel of the floor would remind me of that skull-cobbled street, or I would turn expecting to see someone behind me, but find no one there. Things flickered at the extremities of my vision, and sometimes I would see a dark figure retreating around a corner ahead of me. Usually all these effects were preceded by an apparent distortion of my surroundings. It all combined to add to an air of menace, so when Rhodane summoned me to the interrogation I felt edgy and angry.

His cell was much like the medical area I had found myself in when I woke up: looking like the interior of a walnut shell, only green. The Sudorian soldier, however, did not lie strapped to a comfortable bed but was instead ensconced in a chair. He shivered occasionally, probably because they had removed his helmet and the temperature in there must have been chill to a Sudorian. Something like a melted crab clung to the side of his head, with its leglike protrusions penetrating his skin. Blood had crusted around the wounds.

Slog and Flog squatted against the wall over to one side. I did not think they were there to guard him, since with his insulating suit epoxied to the chair he wasn't going anywhere, but were watching out of curiosity. Slog, who I now identified more easily by a blotch resembling a birthmark on the side of his neck, was sharpening his mandibles with a small hand-held rasp. The Sudorian soldier kept glancing at him, whether out of fear at the implicit threat or just through irritation, I couldn't say. The prisoner otherwise seemed pretty self-possessed.

"I thought it might be a good idea for you to question him," Rhodane suggested.

I hesitated, then abruptly stepped forward. "What's your name?"

He stared at me for a long moment, then winced and jerked his head, replying, "Erache Turner."

"What is that thing on the side of his head, Rhodane?" I asked.

"The broud encourages him to answer quickly and discourages him from lying," she replied. "It uses pain, certain neurochemicals, stimulation and uninhibitors."

Rather unpleasant, I gathered, but I wasn't feeling particularly sympathetic right then since, as well as the nightmares and other weird effects I had been experiencing, I still felt nauseous most of the time, aching from head to foot as if from unaccustomed exercise, and my shoulder still hurt, a lot. In fact, at that very moment my right leg started to develop a case of the shakes. Looking round I noted a shelf-like protrusion beside the door, stepped back and rested my weight on it.

"Why did you try to kill me?" I asked him.

Again that pause then wince. "I didn't try to kill you."

I glanced at Rhodane. "But he can obviously resist it."

"The absence of further discomfort shows that he did not lie."

The prisoner looked rather smug all of a sudden, and I realised my questioning required more precision. "Why did one of your companions try to kill me?"

"I don't know—" His head snapped back and he grimaced. The broud shifted slightly against his temple. "You were in his sights when—" His jaw locked into a line and his eyes squeezed shut. "Fuckit! We were ordered!" Panting, he opened his eyes. A little trickle of blood ran down his cheek.

"Who gave the orders?"

"Admiral…Carnasus—" Gloved fingers clamping onto the chair arms. "Fleet!" He started shivering.

"Did your orders come directly from Admiral Carnasus?"

"No."

"Did your orders come from Harald Strone?"

"…Yes!"

My mouth suddenly arid, I glanced at Rhodane. "Any suggestions?"

She had been standing, arms folded, staring pensively at the prisoner. Her mouth had a slight twist, as if she had tasted something bitter. Of course—Harald was her brother.

"Why were you sent to Brumal?" she asked.

The man stared at her. "Traitor, how can you…? We were sent… we were sent." He yelled and thrashed about as much as his glued-in-place suit would allow. He started gasping again, and despite the room being cold for a Sudorian, sweat beaded his face.

"Answer me," said Rhodane, "and the pain will stop."

"Harald sent us." He managed this through gritted teeth. "He sent us—" His head snapped back and his eyes closed—apparently the broud was as impatient with procrastination as it was with prevarication. "We were sent to scout—" He shrieked. This performance went on for some minutes until eventually it started to all come out. The missile launcher came from a Fleet ground base, and they moved it using antigravity lifts, camouflaged and at night. The bodies had been stored in the same ground base: Brumallians killed during the last stages of the War or during the subsequent occupation, and put on ice for further study. The missile they had fired was guided in by a beacon on Inigis's ship, a beacon in the viewing gallery which someone activated once I was in there alone.