Never Surrender (The Empire's Corps Book 10) (38 page)

Jasmine frowned, then pulled him to his feet and half-carried, half-dragged him into the shower.  The suicide rate on Earth had been terrifyingly high - she’d once heard that one in fifty Earthers would kill themselves - but she couldn't understand why Gary would try to kill himself
now
.  He had Kailee, he had prospects, he’d proved himself ... he would go to Avalon and get a decent job.  Why had he tried to kill himself now?

She turned on the water, then watched as Gary spluttered under the flow of cold liquid.  He twisted and turned, but she didn't let go until he was thoroughly drenched.  She dragged him back out, helped him to undress and then threw a towel at him.  If the water wasn't enough to clear his mind, she would need to tie him down until he sobered up.  She didn't know if the medical kit on the ship had any sober-up, or if she wanted to use it if it did.

“All right,” she said.  Naked, Gary was a mess.  It was clear from the way he held himself that he had no pride in his body at all, even though she’d seen worse.  “What happened and why?”

Gary picked up a gown, then dressed slowly.  “I don’t deserve to live,” he said, as he pulled the gown over his head.  “You should kill me.”

Jasmine lifted her eyebrows.  “Did you rape Kailee?  Did you betray us?  Did you put salt in my coffee yesterday?”

“This isn't funny,” Gary shouted at her.

“No, it isn't,” Jasmine agreed.  Gary had always been scared of her, despite his best attempts to hide it.  If he was shouting at her, the fear had to have been replaced by something else - bitter self-loathing, perhaps.  “Why do you feel you deserve to die?”

“I killed them all,” Gary said.  “I controlled the bees, I threw them around like they were nothing, I killed hundreds of thousands of people ...”

“I doubt it,” Jasmine said.  She doubted there had been more than twenty thousand people on the shipyard, in total.  “And you had no choice.”

“I
gloried
in it,” Gary snapped.  “I
enjoyed
killing them because they were the bastards who’d wrecked my life.  I wanted to make them hurt!”

Jasmine winced.  She’d heard stories about people on Earth, people who just snapped and tried to kill as many others as they could before they were brought down.  Gary might have been a prime candidate for snapping, given his life before Meridian; he’d grown up in a world where every man’s hand was turned against him.  And then, given the ability to make them hurt, as he put it, he’d gloried in his newfound power.

You never see that outside the Core Worlds
, she thought, morbidly. 
Is it because we don’t allow the seeds of hatred and madness to take root and grow
?

But Gary had a conscience, she realised, turning her attention back to him.  Afterwards, when he’d had a moment to relax and
think
, he’d recognised what he’d done.  The others had never been given the chance to consider their actions in the cold light of day.  Gary ... had seen the monster within him and recoiled.

“You should kill me,” Gary said, bitterly.  He reached for a bottle of rotgut.  Jasmine snatched it up and shoved it behind her.  She would have to pour it down the toilet later, then have a few words with Frazier.  If there were any other bottles on the ship, they would have to be locked away or discarded.  “Look what I did!”

“You didn’t have a choice,” Jasmine said, slowly. 

She sighed, inwardly.  What could she say to convince him he’d done the right thing?  His morality, such as it was, rebelled against his actions. 
She
had been raised on a world where it was openly acknowledged that some people would never reform and just needed killing.  Gary had been taught never to seek his opponent’s death.  And it
was
quite likely that a great many innocents had been killed in the crossfire.

“I could have said no,” Gary said.  “I could have accepted what I was doing.  But I saw it as nothing more than a game.”

“I know,” Jasmine said.

He stared at her.  “What was it like for you?  What happened the first time you killed a man?”

Jasmine met his eyes, unflinchingly.  “It was on Han,” she said.  She’d shot at everything from stationary targets to robots and holographic simulations, but she’d only shot a real man on Han, during her first deployment.  In truth, it hadn't been until afterwards that it had gotten to her.  Even then, she’d known that one of them would have died.  “He was going to hurl a bottle of gas at me, with the flame already lit.  I shot him.”

And the flames burned him
, she thought.  She’d had nightmares for weeks afterwards, even after she’d killed countless other insurgents. 
He died in agony ... but he would have done it to me, if I’d given him the chance.

She patted Gary’s shoulder, awkwardly.  “You’re going to be supervised for the rest of the voyage,” she said.  “Kailee cares about you, a lot.  Leaving her alone is no way to thank her.”

Gary looked down at the deck.  “I’m not a child,” he protested.  “She doesn't want me.”

“She loves you,” Jasmine said, flatly.  “And instead of complaining, and plotting to end your own life, you might as well come to terms with it.  You are not on Earth any longer, Gary, and you can shape a life of your own.”

She sighed.  “Or you can die,” she added.  “But it would be something of a waste.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

And yet, the Fall of Earth left the Empire’s successor states struggling with the questions that had bedevilled humanity since the concept of taking prisoners on a large scale had first been developed.

- Professor Leo Caesius. 
The Empire and its Prisoners of War.

Avalon, Year 5 (PE)

“You don’t have to treat me like this,” Hannalore protested, as Kitty stepped into the interrogation chamber.  “I'm not going anywhere.”

Kitty shrugged.  Hannalore had not had a very pleasant night.  She'd slept on a hard bunk without a cover, then woken at seven in the morning and fed a very basic meal.  The guards had collected her an hour later, searched her thoroughly once again, then marched her down, her hands in cuffs, into the interrogation chamber.  It would help keep her off-balance ... and remind her that her life was no longer her own.

“Procedure,” Kitty said. 

She sat down, facing the older woman.  “You agreed to cooperate,” she said.  “I should warn you, here and now, that if you refuse to cooperate at any time in the future, the original charges will be proffered against you and you will stand trial for treason.”

Hannalore scowled at her, but said nothing.  Kitty studied the older woman for a long moment, trying to decide if Hannalore could be relied upon to keep her word.  Was she smart enough to realise, to understand, that she had nowhere to go?  Or was she so convinced that
she
was the good guy that she thought she could get out from under Kitty’s thumb at a later date?  She
looked
beaten, willing to give up and cooperate in exchange for not being executed, but Hannalore had grown up on Earth.  Kitty would have been surprised if she hadn't been a skilled dissembler before her coming-out party, when she’d been fifteen.

“There won’t be a second chance,” Kitty added.  “Your every move will be supervised and you will be asked to account for anything that seems suspicious.  However, once the war is over, you and your husband will have a chance to live together, far from the maddening crowds.”

Hannalore winced.  “What happened to my husband?”

“He’s still sleeping it off,” Kitty said.  “I think he drank a little too much last night.”

She sighed, openly.  In truth, she wasn't sure
what
would happen to the former Governor.  Having him hospitalised for something minor might be wise, if only to keep him apart from his treacherous wife.  Marriages had been broken for far less than one party committing outright treason.  Hell, High Society on Earth hadn't given a damn about adultery.  But treason? 
That
would put a crimp into any marriage. 

Hannalore’s eyes narrowed.  “He was never much of a drinker.”

“It seemed the best way to help him cope with his feelings,” Kitty said, dispassionately.  “He didn't know, did he, that you were selling us out.”

“No,” Hannalore said.  Her eyes flashed, suddenly.  “Why would I trust him for anything?”

Kitty met her eyes.  “You married him because you thought he had good prospects,” she said, “and would probably go far.  And he did; he went all the way to Avalon and took you with him.  He saved you from certain death on Earth.  And yet you’re bitching because you no longer have unearned power and influence?  If you’d used those damn parties for what you
said
they were for, you would have had plenty of power and influence ...”

“You don’t understand,” Hannalore said.  “I ...”

“I understand that you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth,” Kitty pointed out, fighting to keep her voice calm.  “I also understand that, when the spoon was removed, you were unable to cope.  Poverty was never an issue for you on Earth, was it?  You never had to worry about where the next meal was coming from.  I dare say it must have been a terrible shock to have to actually fend for yourself.”

She sighed.  “Avalon has countless opportunities for young people,” she added.  “And you could have made something of yourself without resorting to treason.”

“Fuck you,” Hannalore said.  “Being born into High Society comes with a price tag ...”

“I dare say it does,” Kitty agreed.  “But I think you could have parleyed it into a position of power and influence if you’d wanted.  All you
really
wanted to do was hang on to your husband’s coattails and let him do the work, while you reaped the reward.”

She shrugged.  “You are due to hold the next party tomorrow,” she added.  “I expect you to be ready for duty.”

Hannalore blinked, then rattled her cuffs.  “Like this?”

“No,” Kitty said, dryly.  “You’ll be expected to wear clothes.  Unless you have a habit of walking around naked at your parties.”

“Not
these
parties,” Hannalore said. 

Kitty smiled, then reached into her pocket and produced an injector tube.  Hannalore opened her mouth to protest, but Kitty pressed the tube against the side of her neck before she could say a word.  The older woman grunted as Kitty pushed the trigger, then glowered at her, one hand reaching up to rub where the tube had touched her bare skin.  Kitty returned the tube to her pocket, then smirked.

“You have been injected with a standard tracking implant, coded to you and you alone,” she said.  “It remains silent, most of the time, but it will activate upon picking up a particular signal.  You literally
cannot
run and hide without me tracking you down.  And, as these implants are given to prisoners, even a standard security sweep when you pass through a starship’s barriers will sound an alarm.  You cannot hope to leave the planet without my permission.”

Hannalore stared at her.  “Get it out!”

“I don’t think so,” Kitty said.  “It won’t be removed until you’ve completed your work with us.”

She released Hannalore from the chair, then led her through the door and into a washroom complex.  Hannalore looked around her, surprised, as Kitty removed the cuffs and dropped them in a pocket, then nodded towards the shower and a set of drawers, positioned neatly against one wall. 

“Shower thoroughly, then get dressed,” Kitty ordered.  “We took the liberty of ordering you some new clothes from your favourite store.  Once you’re dressed, we will go back to your mansion and start work.”

Hannalore nodded.  “But what about Brent?”

“Your husband?”  Kitty shrugged.  She rather doubted Hannalore cared for her husband, certainly not after he’d lost his power and position.  “I think we’ll put it about that he was taken ill, suddenly, and has to remain in hospital.  That would probably for the best, wouldn’t it?”

She watched Hannalore step into the shower, then walked out of the compartment.  It was thoroughly monitored; Hannalore couldn't hope to do anything without being spotted, although Kitty had no idea what she
could
do.  The entire chamber had been carefully designed to exclude anything that could be used as a weapon, or used to commit suicide.  It wasn't something Kitty cared to think about, but she had to keep reminding herself that Hannalore had no rights.  She was a known traitor, after all.

“She’s washing herself,” Lieutenant Piper reported.  “And looking around for trouble.”

Kitty shrugged, then swiftly discarded her uniform and donned a simple green tunic.  They’d been fashionable, once upon a time, but now they were commonplace, even on Avalon.  Kitty had never understood fashion - people like Hannalore had determined what was in and out every season - yet she certainly knew the value of blending in with her surroundings.  The tunic would be completely unremarkable and that was all that mattered.

She let her hair down, completing the civilian appearance, then walked back into the washroom.  Hannalore had finished her shower and was dressing slowly, donning each item of clothing as though it were a piece of armour.  Kitty understood - Hannalore was regaining a little amount of control for herself - but she couldn't be allowed to get too comfortable.  It wouldn't matter, Kitty told herself.  The Governor’s wife was no longer in control of her life.

“Come with me,” she said, once Hannalore was dressed.  “There’s a car waiting for you.”

She led the way back through a maze of corridors and out into the garage.  The car was nicely anonymous, one of hundreds that had been produced in the wake of the Cracker War; it was unlikely anyone would connect it with Commonwealth Intelligence.  She motioned for Hannalore to get into the passenger seat, then climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.  It had been odd, once upon a time, to sit in a car that
didn't
drive itself, but now she was used to it.  Hannalore eyed her oddly as she steered the car up the ramp and out onto the main street.  Hardly anyone paid any attention as she drove towards the Governor’s Mansion.

“You will have to hire new servants,” Kitty said, as they pulled up outside the gates.  The guard saw Hannalore, then opened the gate to allow them to drive into the grounds.  “Some of them will be there to keep an eye on you.”

“I can choose my own servants,” Hannalore protested.

Kitty gave her a sharp look.  “Not any longer,” she said.  She smirked as a thought occurred to her.  “Besides, servants have
eyes
.  I think you might find they know more of your secrets than you think.”

Hannalore blanched.

Kitty parked the car, then motioned for Hannalore to get out as she looked around.  The mansion seemed quieter somehow, now there weren't hundreds of guests clogging up the grounds or swarming in and out of the house.  A single gardener was mowing the lawn, but there was no one else in sight.  Hannalore sighed, slumping in on herself, then pulled herself together and strode towards the main doors.  Kitty followed her, glancing around from side to side as they walked.  If Hannalore was plotting treachery, she would never have a better chance.

“Two cups of tea,” Hannalore ordered, as they entered the doors and walked past a tired-looking maid.  “Bring them both to my office.”

The maid nodded and hurried off.  Kitty smiled inwardly - clearly, the maid was desperate for work - and then followed Hannalore into her private office.  It was a bigger room than she’d expected, surprisingly bland for such a society butterfly.  The only real decoration was a large painting of the Childe Roland, the age he’d been when his father had shuffled off the mortal coil.  Kitty studied it, wondering why Hannalore had even bothered to buy, let alone keep, the painting.  By now, even if the Childe Roland had survived the Fall of Earth, he would be at least twenty-three.

I wonder if he did survive
, Kitty thought. 
But if he had, would it matter
?

She shook her head, morbidly.  Child Emperors rarely lived very long; the Childe Roland had only survived, she suspected, because he had no real power or influence of his own.  She knew enough about him, from rumours passed through Imperial Intelligence before she’d been sent to Avalon, to fear what the Empire would become, if he
had
had real power.  He’d been a spoilt brat ...

“Hannalore,” she said, slowly.  “Why did you keep this painting?”

“A reminder,” Hannalore said, as the maid entered.  “That what you look like isn't as important as what you actually
are
.”

Kitty shrugged, then watched as the maid carefully placed a tray on the desk and poured them both a cup of tea.  The young girl smiled shyly at Kitty, then curtseyed and withdrew, as silently as she had come.  Hannalore sipped her tea, using it to calm herself, while Kitty studied the painting for the second time.  The Childe Roland had had no real power ... and neither had the Governor, once he’d left his post.  Had Hannalore wanted to remind herself that there was a difference between pretensions of power and
actual
power?

“Very good,” she said, flatly.  “Show me the bugging system.”

Hannalore looked alarmed, but put down her cup of tea and swung the terminal around to face Kitty.  Oddly, a wire ran from it to the wall, a dead giveaway that
something
was fishy; it was rare to see any form of hard connection when wireless was far more convenient.  But it made sense, Kitty was sure.  The great advantage of hard connections was that they were almost impossible to tap without physical access.