Aftermath (9 page)

“I wish to hire a barrister,” I repeat, this time to my guard, as she’s leaving.

“I’ll pass that along,” she says in the same tone as
frag off
.

The door closes, lock engaged, alarm armed. No way out. This has to be a violation of my rights; I should be permitted to consult with legal counsel before being locked away. Yet based on the scene at the spaceport, I can’t deny the situation is volatile. It’s possible they’ve put me here for my protection. Since there’s nothing else to do, I lie down on the bunk and stare up at the ceiling.

Hours pass in this fashion, or at least I think they do. Eventually, I sleep, and awaken to a polite, AI voice. “Please stand back from the door, prisoner 838.”

I have a number now; she imprinted it on the back of my neck. As instructed, I remain where I am.

It’s a different guard this time, also female. She appears to be in late middle age without any signs of Rejuvenex treatments. Her body is heavy and strong, more than a match for me, should I get any ideas.

“The jurisprudence center employs a large human workforce,” I note.

“Bots can be hacked and reprogrammed. People can’t.”

But they can be bribed.
Wisely, I don’t say this aloud.

She goes on, “Follow me.”

I see no point in asking where we’re going; it isn’t like I have any choice over my movements henceforth. Resistance will just earn me behavioral correction. So I follow her down the bleak gray hall. At the four-way, she makes a left turn and leads me to a set of security doors. The locks in place require a code, her pass card, and a ret-scan. Once she finishes, we pass through and into what looks like a visiting center.

For the first time, I see other prisoners in stalls made of more unbreakable glastique, where they can be supervised at all times.

“Hold out your hands,” the guard orders. When I comply, she shackles them at the wrists. “You will be permitted fifteen minutes for legal consultation. Second booth to the left.”

Puzzled, I head toward the stall she indicated, and the door pops open at my approach. So everything is automated. I don’t recognize the woman waiting for me; she’s sharply tailored in black with her brown hair pinned up in a complicated arrangement. Impossible to say how old she is, but she bears the smooth, ageless look I associate with Ramona, which means she’s had top-notch Rejuvenex treatments. If nothing else, it says she’s a capable barrister because she can afford them.

Her clothes are real fabric, another mark that she’s high- priced, and they’ve been hand-altered to fit her perfectly—nothing straight out of a wardrober for this woman. I admit it adds to her aura of perfect confidence. She stands as she notices me but doesn’t offer a hand to shake. Instead, she turns her face up to the ceiling.

“Please turn off all monitoring software at this time. I’m invoking counsel-client privilege.”

“Acknowledged,” replies the imperturbable AI. “Switching to visual human surveillance only.”

I step into the stall and take a seat opposite her at the table that has been formed out of glastique. There are no loose parts in here, either, just as in the halls and in the cell, nothing that could instigate an escape—a well-designed prison, this one. She consults her handheld.

“Thanks for joining me, Ms. Jax. I’m Nola Hale, and I’ve been hired to defend you against all criminal charges.”

“By who?”

“Irrelevant. As we have only a short time, I’d prefer to be efficient.”

I nod. “What do you need to know?”

“Everything. But we don’t have time for that today. I intend to defend you pursuant to Title 19.”

“What does that mean?”

“That everything you did, you did with executive authority. Did Tarn tell you that your mission was of the utmost importance?”

“He may have.” Honestly, at this moment, I can’t remember.

“Under Title 19, in times of war, the chancellor may commission an agent to act on behalf of the Conglomerate in its best interests, disregarding all other legislation and jurisdictions in order to act for the greater good. Such an agent cannot be held accountable for lesser crimes, if the discharged duty was, in fact, imperative for the Conglomerate’s survival.”

“So you intend to argue that I was so commissioned.”

“It will be enough if I can convince the tribunal that
you
believed you were acting with executive authority.”

“Do you believe that?”

“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” Ms. Hale says briskly. “But I will ask this: Did you believe you were preserving the Conglomerate’s interests?”

I consider the bombing on Venice Minor and imagine the consequences if the Morgut had reached New Terra. “Absolutely.”

“Good. My job is easier. I only have to create doubt, whereas the prosecution must prove guilt.”

“That doesn’t sound simple.”

“Don’t worry about that. Just let me do my job. Now, I need you to tell me about every conversation you can remember with Chancellor Tarn, and, after that, I need to hear about your mission to change the beacons.”

That’s a lot of talking, and before I’m halfway done relating everything I can recall about Tarn and his various orders, a buzzer goes off.

The barrister stands. “Our time’s up. I’ll be back to hear the rest, and then we’ll talk again once I lay the foundation for your defense.”

“How long before my trial?”

“Ordinarily, it could take months, even turns, but they need to process you quickly. They’re rioting outside already . . . It will be madness if it’s permitted to escalate.”

“Rioting?” I pause on my way out. “Why?”

“Some want the death penalty. Others want you freed. It’s a polarizing case.”

“Can you win?”

“If anyone can,” she answers without false modesty. “See you soon, Ms. Jax.”

 

Jax,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The female guard escorts me back to my cell, where a
meal is waiting for me. “So how’s prison working out for you? Three squares a day,” she says. “Exercise with the other cellies. I hope you like your own company.”

Then she locks me in again. A hum and a buzz—that’s all it takes to drive home an immutable sense of isolation. At least I still have March’s letter; I read it a hundred times more, and I miss him so much it hurts. But he’s right—I don’t want to be rescued. I understand why he’s not sitting around Ocklind. He has a personal mission right now . . . but I treasure that letter like nothing I ever owned.

I didn’t put down my true feelings—that I do feel like he’s abandoning me. But what could he do if he stayed? It could be months before we go to trial, and I can’t see him even in the courtroom as the proceedings will be closed. There’s nothing he can do here for me, but I
hate
that he left.

Thereafter, the days pass in a monotonous nightmare. I once saw an old vid where convicts adopted rats and cockroaches to stave off loneliness, but my cell is clean, no cracks where anything can crawl in.

Except despair. There’s plenty of room for that.

To drive off the madness, I cast back to my combat training and run through the drills, practicing forms and fighting an imaginary opponent. From there, I move to stretches against the wall, crunches, push-ups. After a while, I stop counting; I just work until sweat streams off me, my muscles feel like water, and I cannot do another rep. At that point I stagger to my bunk and lie there in a daze. Rinse, repeat. As time passes, I notice a difference in my body, what they call prison fit.

Ms. Hale comes by regularly to pick my brain as she shapes my defense. Otherwise, I sit in my cell alone, poking at my food and waiting for the bright spot that is exercise time. There are five other female prisoners in my block, but they don’t speak to me. For obvious reasons, the guards don’t encourage fraternization.

On my tenth day in custody, things change. The old guard lady comes to fetch me earlier than usual, before I’ve had my first meal.

“Your barrister’s here.”

Mary, I hope it’s good news. Without letting my hopes spike too sharply, I follow the old screw down the hall to the visiting chambers. Ms. Hale is as polished and coiffed as ever. Not for the first time, I wonder about her fees; but she refuses to discuss that with me, as I am her client but not her employer.

“You have news?” I say in greeting.

“Good morning to you as well, Ms. Jax. You’re looking thin.”

My cheeks heat. “Sorry. It’s hard to remember my manners in here.”

“I understand. I
do
have news. Your trial starts next week.”

A pleasurable shock—she’d mentioned they needed to expedite the process, but that’s fast by any standards.
If only March had waited. I could have gone with him, maybe.
The dart of anger sparks and fades, leaving me wrestling with guilt. I made the choices that landed me here . . . and I don’t expect him to suborn his life into mine any more than I would change my dreams for him. We’re not one soul, one being, however much we love each other.

I fix my mind on business, crushing my wounded feelings. “Can you check into some things for me?”

“Certainly.”

“Find out whether Commander March has left New Terra . . .” I’m sure he has. He wrote days ago that he was heading out to look for his nephew.
Don’t hope.
“. . . and if Argus has started training the other navigators yet.”