Absorption (33 page)

The general lifted his hands into view, and Brett saw he had prepared a syringe of amber fluid. Instead of using it, he continued speaking. “Brett, this war isn’t going to be simple or easy. This may be the bloodiest action the Space Force has seen for hundreds of years, and a time will come when civilians need something to give them a little spine. So they’ve been clever enough to hide all evidence of what’s been done to you – even from yourself.”

The general had no trouble meeting Brett’s eyes as he continued speaking. “I’m sure you’ve heard of Questron. It will help uncover repressed memories, but I don’t want to use it because of the unpleasant side effects.”

Brett had heard of Questron. It could cause nausea, projectile vomiting, severe disorientation and dizziness, confusion, and memory gaps lasting hours or days. It was not considered a means of torture because it also seemed to uncover older repressed or forgotten memories. Nonetheless, its use required special authorization, and that was rarely given.

Brett hoped desperately this was a bluff. Using it on an officer of the Space Force who hadn’t been convicted or even accused of a crime would create serious legal problems. This provided him some slight protection – until it was actually used. After that, it might be very convenient for Brett to disappear, or else for evidence of a serious crime to appear.

Brett cast around mentally, looking for a way to turn this from brutal intimidation to mere interrogation. He would have been better prepared if he had taken Williams’ warnings about Pendergastman more seriously, but no sense thinking about that now. He made his voice soft and respectful. “Sir, I understand how important this is, but I couldn’t fool the Grand Council even if I wanted to. They’ll have a lot of detailed questions about my ‘recovered’ memories.”

Could Brett fool them? Suddenly he felt he probably could, especially if they wanted to be fooled. Certain ends might justify abhorrent means – but some ends needed to be judged by their champions. Pendergastman might do whatever he was told, but the society that gave power to the people behind him had to be driven by a cloying fear.

Brett didn’t kid himself. It wasn’t belief in the rightness of this cause that made him even consider cooperation. It wasn’t even loyalty to the long ago oath he had taken to the Space Force, the same Space Force that had sent Pendergastman to torture him into perjury if necessary. No, he too was engulfed by fear. Not only that, the fear was not so different from the old one of being somehow absorbed by Oceania, of losing his individuality, the same fear that had brought the Federalist Worlds to send him here. People sometimes needed therapy after Questron. Perhaps they lost some memories permanently if exposed for too long, perhaps even something of themselves. There were worse consequences to fear than physical pain and discomfort.

It seemed an eternity before Pendergastman spoke again. “You’ll have plenty of help.”

Brett looked him in the eyes. “I’ll need to be very thoroughly coached. The stakes are too important for errors, and I could go to prison for a long time for perjury before the Grand Council.”

As he spoke, Brett knew cooperation was unthinkable. Heedless defiance would get him nowhere though, as violence had brought the teenager he had once been nowhere. He couldn’t even wait until he saw the Grand Council to tell the truth. War would be underway by then. Somehow he had to alert someone, convince them to pass word to… who? Brett no longer even trusted Senator Peterson, not really. Even if nobody trustworthy had power here, he had to tell the truth to someone.

General Pendergastman nodded. “Very good. But we’ll need a brainscan before we continue.”

The last of Brett’s hope leeched away. A brainscan was not like nannies and a skullcap, but with care they would be able to tell truth from lies, straightforwardness from evasion.

Pendergastman seemed to notice a change in his expression and said, “I like to think the old Major Johnson will be grateful to us if we can bring him back again, grateful that we kept the Oceanians from using your shell as a puppet.”

Wondering if he should just keep his mouth shut, Brett asked, “So after the cure, are you going to punish the old Brett for what I’ve done?”

Pendergastman shook his head vigorously. “Of course not. And you can still be that old Brett if you try.”

Brett wanted to tell him he was wrong, this man was entirely Brett’s evil twin, and then tell him he was a loathsome worm who deserved to be run through a meat grinder. What stopped him wasn’t common sense, or the hope for some clever idea to come. Brett was desperately frightened, pure and simple, and could not get the words out.

Gravity was fairly strong in the room where Brett was secreted, almost that of Old York. He could throw up normally without making a mess when he made it all the way to the toilette.

How long had he been here? Sometimes it felt like years, but that couldn’t be right. Questron distorted the brain’s sense of duration, so he probably hadn’t really been left locked away in a room forgotten after the war was long over. He had eaten a few meals, then gotten tired of vomiting and stopped eating. They hadn’t punished him as he half expected, but had fed him intravenously. It was nice actually, not having anything to throw up, but the dry heaves left an acidy feeling in his throat, and a technician stood over him to make sure he didn’t pull out the needle. He had started eating again in return for the occasional illusion of privacy, though of course he was monitored. There had been a couple of light meals since then.

There was a loud knock on the door. “May I come in?”

The question seemed hysterically funny, but laughing would hurt, and he didn’t want to cry. He was a prisoner, and the door locked on the outside. The Brett who might have said that he was busy and they should call again later seemed very long gone.

“Come in,” he croaked.

Pendergastman entered, followed by his two goons dressed as military policemen, one of whom carried a folding chair. Brett did not stand up from the bed and snap a salute, partly because his hospital gown meant he was out of uniform, but mostly because he struggled even to sit up. Questron couldn’t really be considered torture, it was no worse than the worst flu he had ever had combined with the worst stomach virus.

After sitting Pendergastman said, “Major, I’m very sorry you had to go through this.”

Brett refrained from saying that Pendergastman wasn’t nearly as sorry as Brett. “Yes sir.”

The general went on. “I’m only going to ask once more. Will you agree to testify before the Grand Council?”

Of course he would. Not worth mentioning, since they both knew the General wanted him to lie to them, and would have his brain scanned before releasing him.

Brett shook his head, lest a refusal to answer entirely anger the General further to no purpose.

“As disappointed as I am, I still want you to return to the planet’s surface. I believe your reports may still be of some value to us, but I’m really hoping you will regain some of the memories that have been buried.”

Did the general still believe that? Did he pretend to in order to salve his own conscience, or to fool Brett into … what?”

Then new hope crashed over him, like a warm Ocean wave splashing over the head of a confident swimmer. Once away from the Firestorm, he could do anything. He could ask for asylum. He could say, “I’m pretty convinced the overmind isn’t gonna eat me, but even if it does I still prefer that to being tortured by my employers, and this Questron stuff kind of eats your brain anyhow.”

He would have to leave soon, because the Questron would make a brain scan unreliable while still in his system. There was a scientific name for that effect. Oh yeah, ‘brain all fucked up.’

The general gestured to the two MP’s standing behind him. “These gentlemen will help you put your uniform back on.”

Brett envisioned some cruel trick, but in fact he was unable to dress himself. They could do anything they wanted, and if he didn’t cooperate with one form of humiliation, try another.

“Yes sir,” he replied as firmly as he could, and attempted to get to his feet. One of the MP’s helped him, not too roughly.

Pendergastman said, “The optimum launch window for the shuttle is in about three hours. You should be a lot better by then.”

An almost familiar noise woke Brett, followed by an unbearably bright red light. No, that must be the sunlight shining through his closed eyelids. Brett tried to struggle to his feet, experiencing a moment of panic before he remembered the safety harness.

A young voice said, “Sir, you don’t have to get up just yet. I wish you and the General hadn’t insisted on your returning today.”

Brett started to take a deep breath, stopped when he began to feel a cough reflex. He didn’t think he was that ill. He certainly hadn’t wanted to eat while still sick from the drugs. It hadn’t seemed like a good idea right before flight. So now he was weak, though he didn’t feel quite hungry. Maybe traces of some drugs were still in his bloodstream.

Why couldn’t he move? Oh. Brett unsnapped the harness with an effort. He couldn’t quite focus. For some reason standing up still posed difficulty. Maybe eye trouble or eyes blurred with tears. Nausea and dizziness hit again, and he half sat, half fell, back down.

“Brett! What’s the matter?”

The voice was familiar. Ambassador Williams. Coming to meet the shuttle had been a nice touch, especially considering Williams’ phobia.

Brett croaked, “I’m fine,” but his voice didn’t sound fine at all in his own ears.

Williams spoke again, apparently not to Brett or the pilot. “Can you use that hat to summon an ambulance?”

“Right away Ambassador.”

The young voice again, “You have help on the way? Great, I don’t think my first aid certification covers this.”

Great. This would be embarrassing when they saw he was only a little dizzy. Brett collected himself to begin explaining.

“And will you find a way of notifying an important Neuron named Ariel Lilac who knows Brett personally? She should know how to get everything ready at whatever VIP hospital he’s going to, and she may want to meet him there.”

Brett objected, “You’re not my mother, stop it.”

Nobody responded, perhaps because his voice wasn’t all that loud or clear.

Brett flashed back momentarily to the confrontation with his own fears, and the past that had made him who he was. It had been a long time since he had thought of his mother.

He opened his eyes. Had he blacked out a moment? Were they really getting ready to remove him from the cockpit in a stretcher? That was silly, but he wouldn’t mind being carried a few minutes. He closed his eyes for another moment.

Brett heard Ariel’s voice. “He’s waking up.”

How did she know? Did Ariel see Brett’s vital signs hovering over his body, as if he were hooked up to virtual monitoring equipment?

He didn’t open his eyes yet. A strange male voice said, “Are you sure he’s going to want visitors? Will all four of us be too much for him? Maybe Callie and I should come back some other time.”

The name Callie was familiar. Brett had worked with her as part of the hive mind.

Ariel’s voice. “I promise you he’s not too shy to ask you to leave if he feels like it. Anyway, the doctors say he should be feeling a lot better, though they want to keep him a few days. He slept nine hours, his blood sugar is a lot higher now, and most of the drugs have been washed out of his system. I think it will give him a boost to know so many people are concerned about him, though I didn’t let anyone else who knows him only through the hive mind come right now.”

Then she addressed Brett. “You can stop pretending to be asleep now.”

Brett opened his eyes. Ariel and Williams were seated on chairs next to his bed. Williams said, “You look a lot better.”

“Much better. Thanks.”

Brett focused his gaze on Williams. “You could use a few hours sleep.”

Williams grinned. “How kind of you to say so. Same old Brett. We were worried about you.”

Brett replied in the same fashion. “I apologize for not being more unpleasant the past few months. You could have not cared and slept peacefully.”

It felt good to be home. The implications of the thought startled him for a moment, but he didn’t flinch from them. The Federalist Worlds had betrayed him. If he were within reach of the authorities and expressed such a view, a court martial board would speedily remind him that he had taken an oath to the Space Force, but the Space Force had taken no oath to him. As far as his own conscience went though, any obligations he had were paid in full.

He had been trained to withstand torture by an enemy, and hoped he could have withstood more than this – if it were from an enemy. He liked to think it was not his courage that had been used up, but his loyalty. On balance, he still believed the Federalist Worlds and the Space Force had still done more good than harm in history, but he no longer felt personally bound to obey orders he disagreed with if he could get away with not doing so, or was willing to pay the price.

Williams gestured in the direction of two chairs behind him and Ariel. “These people think they know you. Want us to get rid of them?”

One of the chairs was occupied by a man in his sixties, whose hard muscular build contrasted with his white hair. Had Brett met him before? Not in person, but he had seen images of Rock once or twice while part of Oceania. If he had been part of the supermind all those decades, he had to be at least a hundred. Brett had been misled again by Oceanian aging rates.