Unfinished Business

Chapter Sixteen

“We’re clear, Sir,” the corporal called from the hatchway before he sealed it from the outside with a decisive hiss. Colonel McNab looked around at his dinner companions, and waited for Gizu to look up from his rat’s nest of electronics and nod that they weren’t being electronically overheard. That meant that the “officer’s mess” – an empty cargo locker left over from the Suri Madron’s heyday as a terraforming freighter – was as secure from human and electronic surveillance as was possible in the Brown Zone. Not that that was often a problem – the Administrator and his lackeys didn’t give a dingo’s right testicle about what the prisoners did in their off time – but it was tradition. More, it was good security. McNab ran a sloppy outfit in many ways, but security was one area where he could not be faulted. Hell, there wasn’t anything better to do. “All right, ladies and gentlemen, time to tuck in,” he said with a weak grin. “Mr. Gizu assures me that we aren’t being overheard. I think we’re all arrived, now. I therefore call to order the two thousand, three hundred and eighteenth session of the Independent Armed Forces Prisoner Escape Committee and Dining Club. “Tonight Chef has prepared us a modest repast of green protein soup delicately seasoned with the salt of his tears, an intriguing Type Four protein cutlet in a dashing gray color, complimented by some amusing little protein sticks broiled with multivitamin extract an’ covered with an allegedly cheese-flavored liquid protein, an’ for afters we have a delightful runny yellow protein gelatin that is either authentic artificial lemon flavored or laced with the spiteful bastard’s piss. The sommelier will be around shortly for your wine selections – I recommend the toilet-fermented, vacuum-distilled ethanol for it’s sunny bouquet an’ it’s bold aftertaste. In the meantime, let’s start our weeklies, shall we? Lois, shall we begin with you?” “Trevor ain’t said much, last time we was together,” the lean, rangy-looking woman at the end of the table said as she spooned a tepid green liquid into the tin bowl in front of her. “We weren’t ‘zactly talkin’, if you take my meanin’. But he did mention a bunch o’ high-priorities to the Director from the Core. All comin’ in, damn little goin’ out. Made him powerful nervous. His roommate, Igor, he was actin’ all squirrelly, too, an’ not just ‘cause he’s patrollin’ Down Below, either. Somethin’s afoot, I’d stake my virtue on it.” There was a general chorus of chuckles. Lois’ virtue was long derelict of its duty. She had been a whore in Bigglersport before the War, and she had little compunction about sleeping with a guard to gain favor and information. Or anything else, for that matter. The “cheese” sauce tonight was compliments of her lack of virtue. Everyone did their part in the tiny civilization of prison, and her part was on her back. “That agrees with what my boys have picked up in the Blue Zone,” Sergeant Shimoda said, nodding, as he unenthusiastically finished a protein stick. He was a trustee in the guards’ area, where he supervised six other prisoners of similar sterling character as they performed janitorial duties. “They pulled two flexis out of the Watch Commander’s disposal yesterday. One was half-scragged, but it mentioned our shadow and . . . implied dire consequences,” he said, worriedly. The prisoners on the Suri Madron had long known that a small Alliance gunboat patrolled around the perimeter of the huge freighter. It wasn’t there to protect them from Independent warships. It had orders to destroy the ship rather than allow it to fall into enemy hands. “Someone in purple and brass is not happy with The Man.” “What about the other flexi?” McNab asked, after slurping his soup. “That one, that one was even more interesting,” Shimoda nodded sagely. “It was a copy of an order to prepare for inspection. From the Citadel.” “Oh, my,” McNab whispered, the implications inspiring wonder in his eyes. In the twelve years that they had been captive here, there had never been an inspection, not even from a regional headquarters or fleet admiral. The Red Crystal representative, a hopeless little man named Tyre Eaton, had been here as long as the rest of them, as was just as much a prisoner as they. For ten years there hadn’t been more contact with the Outside worlds than the regular supply runs. As such, the ship of three thousand odd prisoners, a thousand or so guards and crew, and a couple of platoons worth of scientists had settled into a stable – even stagnant – power arrangement. The power on the ship had been shared by a triumvirate of officers. There was the Captain, a drunk who had long ago realized that this command was a dead-end for his career. While he technically had command over everyone and everything within the hull, he had no illusions about his actual power here. He was a non-entity who kept to the tomb-like bridge, and its environs, staying drunk most of the time as he looked out into the Black. The Facility Director, also known as the Warden, was Colonel Chen. By far the officer with the most effect over the lives of the prisoners, he oversaw the day-to-day operations of the prison facility. That included rations, supplies, discipline, work details, and other mundane but vital details of existence. Chen was stalwart, and while not usually overtly cruel there was no denying the man had a mean streak. Conventional wisdom advocated steering clear of the Warden whenever possible. Then there was the Administrator, Dr. Romano, who was in charge of the horror show disguised as scientific research here. Half-mad with pretensions of grandeur, his originally robust slate of projects had closed one-by-one over the years until less than half remained. And the ones that had survived had had . . . unintended consequences. The kind of consequences his masters in industry, commerce, and the government did not like to see the light of day. Yet to talk to the man was to be transported into a ‘verse where his work on the Suri Madron was destined for laurels and acclaim – when everyone on the ship knew he should be shot out of hand for war crimes. For ten years there had been no real contact with the War, the Alliance or the Independents. Everyone in the ‘verse had seemed to forget about the Suri Madron. If the freighters stopped coming with protein and spare parts and fuel, everyone on board would likely perish, un-mourned and unremembered. Suddenly, an inspection. And not just a regional commander’s drop-in for a cuppa. To have such a notice come from the nerve center of the Alliance Ministry of Defense was interesting news indeed. “The tone of the notice was perfunctory, and seemed to question the Director’s purpose here. Not at all alike in tone to most of the previous communiqués. I wouldn’t swear to it, but I’d say that there has been a shift in purplebelly management, and someone is starting to ask questions about our little resort ship.” “Maybe an assassination?” Lois asked, eagerly. “One of our boys got through an’ punched ‘em in the head?” “Or maybe a battle, a decisive battle,” Gizu added, eagerly. “A big enough defeat could cause a change in administration. Maybe we bombed Ariel, or something, and the purplebellies had a change of heart. Now the new brass wants to clean house before an armistice! They’d send an inspector out for that to talk to the Administrator.” “We should be so lucky,” Lieutenant Jerome grumbled. “Like to be inna room wi’ the man just once, for five whole minutes.” “See the Unit Secretary, fill out the forms, and he’ll add you to the list,” McNab said, wryly. “Shimoda, get those flexis over to Dwight in Analysis, first thing. Maybe he—” “Sir, there’s more,” the Sergeant interrupted. “Oh, carry on,” encouraged the Colonel. “Sir, one of my men overheard a fight between Major Han and Dr. Ballad. It seems that the purplebellies been issuing a lot of directives to the Docs, all of the sudden. And the Docs don’t like it one bit. It’s keeping their trustees and assistants tied up with real work, it seems. Han insisted, got downright ugly about it. Mentioned . . . closure of the facility.” “A transfer?” Lois asked, hopefully. “Not bloody likely,” McNab said, shaking his head. “More like a threat. If things have gone a-tumble back in the Core, then the new lot is probably curious about our cozy little home. Inspector is coming. Needs to be introduced to the wonders of science.” “Not so sure, Colonel,” Gizu spoke up. “Three days ago we get the order to re-inspect and provision the lifepods. But only the ones in the Blue Zone and forward.” “Including His Nibs’ yacht?” McNab inquired, one eyebrow raised. “Why, indeed we did, Colonel. Imagine that.” Gizu looked disgusted. The Administrator of the prison ship had a small armored sloop in a quick-launch bay near his quarters, in case of emergency. A normal life-pod wasn’t sufficient for his position and dignity. He had justified it in the budget by stowing project data and sample specimens aboard it – but that didn’t explain the lush bedroom and tastefully furnished dayroom, complete with liquor cabinet and holo rig. It was the source of scorn and derision among prisoners and guards alike, as it was opulent enough that he regularly took his “girlfriends” there for intimate encounters. “Interesting,” McNab said, rubbing his jaw. “Any chatter from the Engine Room that can add some depth to that, Giz?” “Maybe,” Gizu admitted. “Probably won’t be moving us real soon, if that’s what you’re asking. I doubt that Big Harve could get the old girl going again right now if he got a direct order from God, Himself, in triplicate. Take him three days to just get the mains spun up. A little more maintenance than normal, mayhap. They did order a replacement part for the relay we blew out when we launched Hamilton into the Black. Special emergency order, too. Should be here in a week. Other than that, quiet.” “Medical? Anything like this?” McNab asked, glancing at Thomas, who worked as one of the trustee orderlies in the medical bay. He also regularly scanned medical records and monitored administrative data on the sly on behalf of the prisoners. While not much actionable intelligence often came of this route, there had been times when the prisoners could tell things by reading between the lines. And, of course, with as many labcoats as there were on this boat, there was plenty of gossip to be overheard. There had been seven original projects on the Suri Madron, and while only three remained active there was plenty of research to go around. And plenty of political in-fighting. They’d been able to exploit that, sometimes. “Plenty of ruckus. New directive on records came down from Admin, apparently. Copies of everything, from raw patient data to complete analysis, on all projects, everything neatly completed for an audit, and yesterday at the latest. Doc Mohammed looked pretty pissed. Y’know how he always mumbles under his breath, like we can’t here or somethin’? He’s doing it at double time, now. Sounds like an inspection to me. ” “Too right it does,” agreed McNab, scratching his unshaven chin. “This is getting better and better – could act in our favor, I think. Green Zone? Any word from our mysterious benefactor?” he asked Lt. Gustav Lienz, a large man across from him. Lienz had been a biologist for a terraformer, before he was commissioned. He spent his work hours in the Phytotron Green Zone, helping with the lab animals and working in the tiny hydroponic garden. For the last two years someone – no one knew who – had been leaving neatly-printed notes for the prisoners under one of the baboon cages. Usually they involved news and gossip from the forward sections, some of it from the Captain and the Administrator’s offices. Whoever it was, they had an inside track that had pumped highly sensitive and often useful information to them on a regular basis. Gustav had returned the favor, too, providing what they considered useful intel to their mystery spy. No one knew if he was a guard, a lab tech, or another prisoner, but his data had been impeccable so far. “As a matter of fact, there is,” Gustav said gravely. “Rather heavy stuff, too.” He removed a paper from inside his gray cover-all and opened it. He glanced around one last time and then cleared his throat before he started reading. “ ‘Captain received coded message from AlliMilIntel regional headquarters at 21:33 GMT. A meeting with the Administrator followed. There was much shouting and scat throwing. Infer from the body language of Administrator after the meeting that Captain finished conflict in an uncharacteristically superior position. Overheard later that some elements at AlliMilIntel want Projects closed and evidence destroyed before promised Parliamentary-sponsored inspection. Administrator wants to contend for the continuation of the project. Captain is inclined to terminate and submit for reassignment. Preparations underway for administration, guard, medical and scientific sections to evacuate. No preparations underway for other species. “ ‘Other intelligence indicates that a final date for evacuation could be as soon as thirty days, depending upon arrival of inspector. Urge you to make alternate preparations with haste. Intelligence indicates the Project will be closed after staff evacuations by using atomic weapons. Whatever you are preparing, your time is at hand.’” There were stares of shock around the table. Silence reigned for longer than anyone was comfortable, but no one wanted to be the first to speak. “Bloody ruttin’ hell,” McNab swore, finally. “That’s one way to close a project.” “Nukes? They’re gonna use gorram nukes on us? That’s against Geneva!” someone said, angrily. “Yeah, take it up with the Red Crystal,” Thomas grumbled. “If they haven’t done anything about them . . . sending folk Below . . .” “. . . an’ performin’ illegal an’ immoral experiments on prisoners in a time of war,” added Lois, bitterly. “Don’t forget the arbitrary punishments,” Gizu said, earnestly. “Yes, yes, and the salad forks are never chilled, not once in twelve years,” grumbled McNab, irritated. “They mean to kill us all to hide their crimes, all their crimes against humanity. Maybe the War has taken a turn for the better, and the brass is getting nervous about facing a Nuremberg tribunal. Maybe the budget didn’t get approved, or somesuch. The point is that the rules, from this point on, have changed. If the Green Zone Phantom says nukes . . . well, he hasn’t been wrong before. I’m inclined to take his word. Which means that we’re fighting for our lives, all of our lives now, and we can’t afford to give it less than our best shot.” He looked around and shrugged. “What do we have to lose?” He stared around the table at every face on the Escape Committee. He knew them better at this point than he did his own family. And they would be the only family he would ever see again, if he didn’t pull this off. Time for some decisive action. Leaping into action, and all that. Hell, he needed to say something, anything, before he just curled up into a ball and started weeping like a child. “This is what we do: Thomas, I want a comprehensive inventory and census. Completely updated resource list. Food, weapons, medicine, extra underwear, everything. “Gustav, craft a reply to our crafty friend, let him or her or it know that we understand the gravity of the situation and we will notify him when we are ready to act. “Lois, work the guards – find out more scuttlebutt, and see what you can do about getting the latest armory code. Hell, any codes you can get we can use, but I’m thinking that guns might be a good thing to have, soon. “Shimoda, keep checking the dustbins, of course, but I also want you to keep an eye open for a way into Blue Zone without anyone knowing. That’s going to be key. “Gizu . . . see what you can do about convincing Chief Harvey to spin up the big drives. Find a bloody reason. I don’t know if we’ll actually need to move the old girl, but I’d like to have the option available. Also, see what you can get on a schedule for that emergency shipment – that might be a good thing to know. “Jerome, run all of this through our grey matter in Analysis and see what their precious synapses can give us. Take them some candy from stores – you know how much they love their sucrose. “Roger, get your squads ready for action – double the calisthenics, start practicing tactical moves every moment there aren’t eyes on you. Pick your squad leaders and get them ready to move in a hearbeat.” McNab looked around again, and saw grim determination and hope contending for dominance on the faces of his people. That was better than raw terror, which is what he was feeling at the moment. An essential component of command, he had learned since he had accepted his commission, was the ability to look calm and act like you knew what you’re doing. Even if your guts were turning to water from the fear. “We meet again in forty-eight hours to start thinking about a plan. A good plan. The best plan ever. Because anything less . . . well, I’m sure it would look dashing to be part of a thermonuclear explosion in the Black, but all things considered I’d prefer to decline the honor. So do your jobs and neglect nothing. As for me,” he said, finishing off the last of his dessert, the most distinguishing element of flavor of which was “yellow”, “I’m going to see The Man.”

*

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*

“Administrator? Colonel McNab to see you, Sir,” the soft-spoken, effeminate secretary said into the intercom. He never took his eyes off of McNab. Despite a decade or more spent staring across the desk at the unarmed prisoner before countless meetings, the man – Naci, his name was, Gilbert Naci – had never stopped acting like McNab was about to leap at his thin neck with a guttural growl and rip his unprotected throat out with his teeth. The man would leap at his own shadow. Of course, McNab hardly ever did anything to play on the man’s fear. Hardly ever. He stood there in his threadbare Field Uniform, a homemade butternut suit in a military cut, the well-worn star-and-oakleaves of rank at his collar and the Black Star insignia on his shoulder. No doubt the lads at the battlefront had better uniforms, by now. His wife had made this one, so long ago, and he wore it proudly. “McNab?” the Administrator’s voice asked from the speaker, surprised. “Our meeting isn’t for another three days! What the hell does he want?” The secretary covered the microphone with his hand and narrowed his eyes. “Yes, just what the hell do you want?” “That’s ‘what the hell do you want, COLONEL,” reminded the officer, the barest hint of a smirk on his face. “A little respect for my rank, if you please.” “What the hell do you want, COLONEL Asswipe?” Naci hissed. “Much better. Please inform the Administrator that I wish to discuss the weather.” Naci looked confused. “But . . . we’re in space. There is no weather!” “And the lack of it is creating a serious morale hazard for my men,” agreed McNab, cheerfully. “The Kite Flying Committee brought me a complaint, and I’m compelled to discuss it with the Administrator.” It took a moment for Naci to realize he was being joked with. He snorted and rolled his eyes, taking his hand off of the microphone. “Sir, he won’t give me a straight answer. I’d recommend toilet paper restriction again.” “And have us think of you every time we drop anchor – I’m sure that will improve your popularity, Nancy.” “THAT’s NACI!” snarled the little man. “Really?” McNab said, affecting surprise. “You sure about that? I could have sworn—” “Don’t let him get your goat, Naci,” the Admin said through the intercom, his voice concealing a chuckle. “Send the cobber in. I’m in need of my Court Jester today.” Glaring beneath a deeply furrowed brow, the secretary swallowed and enunciated clearly: “The Administrator will see you now. Colonel.” “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” McNab asked, cheerfully. Torturing the man did little to advance his cause, it was true, but it not only provided him with some well-needed recreation, it amused Administrator Romano. And that could mean the difference between life and death for the three-thousand-odd Independent prisoners under his care. Dr. Marcus Octavian Romano was the scion of an old, old family of moderate wealth but tremendous standing in the scientific community. It was said that they could trace their rise back to the Euroimperial period before World War Three, when they worked genetic miracles and made great intuitive leaps of understanding for the good of the European Empire as it battled for dominance with the Anglo-American Alliance and the equally-imperialistic SCO to the east. Some whispered (only half joking) that they could actually trace their ancestry back to Galen and Hippocrates. Once the personal physicians to princes and Exodus Captains, the Romanos had built a scientific dynasty that had produced new geniuses and fresh acclaim every generation. Dr. Romano had no less than six Nobel Laureates in his lineage. He was a handsome man, his bold patrician nose and hawklike eyes a tribute to his Latin forebears; his bald head with its fringe of silver looked noble, not emasculating. If one had to paint a picture of the successful brooding genius, Marcus Romano was it. He lived up to his name. In the Central Planets, the name of Romano had achieved in medical circles a mystique approaching awe. Once, to be in school with a Romano was to be forever denied the top spot. To be in a faculty with a Romano was to be relegated to second billing. The family turned out prolific, driven researchers, averaging six or seven major papers during their long careers of inquiry. Some had been hailed as landmarks, watershed events that pushed a particular field in a Romano-oriented direction for decades. Even their black sheep excelled: Martino Romano, who bucked family tradition and eschewed medicine in favor of the uncouth arts of gravitic propulsion and theoretical physics, had designed a space ship drive configuration half a century ago that had remained popular – and lucrative – to this day. Romanos had always had a penchant for cross-disciplinary work, so while it had been no surprise, Martino’s achievement had only been welcome by his kin because it had provided a large jolt of resources that fame and honor had not brought to them. The rest of the family had likewise remained firmly at the top of their chosen fields, adding to the filial glory with regular and generous portions of fresh brilliance. That is, up until a few generations ago. Somehow, somewhere, some of the old magic had gone out of the line. New blood and new ideas had finally started to overcome the mystique. Romanos, while legendary, were losing their touch. Despite years of trying to correct it, the latest few crops of Romanos had begun the long, slow spiral into mediocrity. But they weren’t going without a fight. Which was why Dr. Marcus Romano had spent the last fifteen years aboard the Suri Madron: an attempt to recapture some of the old glory with bold, new studies. To push the limits of knowledge to the breaking point. Only with extreme and profound results could he redeem his father’s uneventful lifetime of Hospital Administration, or his grandfather’s lackluster performance as a botanist, and his other immediate relatives’ relatively uninspiring careers in various obscure branches of science. Dr. Marcus Romano had at last come back to the human body where the Romanos of old had found success. McNab didn’t know much more about the man than that, despite peering through his trash every week for twelve years. He knew Marcus Romano was driven in a way few other men could claim. He had to be, with what he had done. The crimes he was responsible for were damning. Once damned, he had committed to damnation with wide-eyed zealotry. Marcus Romano, Lead Researcher and Administrator for the project, had been handed an ethical blank check by the Alliance at the start of the War, and he had been writing zeros on it ever since. Of course, he had been excused from the common ethical standards traditionally found in a medical researcher – it was a time of war, after all, and some bureaucratic niceties could be overlooked . . . if the effort produced beneficial results. The Alliance had explored several fiendish ideas that were outside of the ethical scope of common research, and they had needed a respectable front-man in charge to lure the talent needed to develop them. Romano and his reputation as a neurologist had provided that. In exchange he had been given complete and utter carte blanc in his research. And Marcus Romano had used it – and the three thousand involuntary human subjects – with the dedication of a genius and the utter impunity of an ancient Roman emperor. Marcus Romano was, therefore, the most hated man on the Suri Madron. Of the seven ambitious projects that had been developed here, his had involved the acceleration of human intelligence – expanding the bounds of neurological efficiency and improving cognition in ways that were as ingenious as they were diabolical. The Alliance hadn’t been terribly interested in that, though; while interesting, it was hardly a weapon that could be deployed in the War. They indulged him, though, as the other projects had proved somewhat more successful. Especially Dr. Behan’s Paxalon. The unshaven Colonel looked around the office as if he hadn’t already memorized every gorram detail. It was opulent, in a shabby sort of way, real dark wooden paneling, an Asian rug older than both men combined, wooden bookcases filled with real books – everything from an ancient copy of Grey’s Anatomy to a whole shelf of memoirs of Romano’s storied ancestors. Two of the heirloom Nobels were in their places of honor on the wall, under lights and surrounded my prizes and medals the doctor had acquired for himself before taking government service. They were not the least bit dusty, even in here, thanks to the effort of one diligent servant. “G’day, Mario,” McNab called cheerfully as he plopped down into one of the overstuffed leather chairs in front of Romano’s desk. “I wish you wouldn’t speak to the help,” complained Romano lightly. “It distracts him.” “Wouldn’t want to do that, now, would we?” McNab breathed. “Sorry, can’t help m’self. Ol’ Mario there is my favorite. Probably the most popular member of your staff.” “Well, I can’t argue that he isn’t amusing,” agreed the old scientist with a snort. “And the most trustworthy, at that. Of course, he could smell better . . .” “I’m sure he has the same complaint about you,” chuckled McNab. “No doubt, no doubt,” agreed Romano, taking a moment to glance at his “orderly”. “And he is easily the cheapest item in my budget. It helps that we pay him in bananas.” McNab smiled, even in the face of the joke that had grown ridiculously tired in the eight years they had shared it. Mario looked up at them, undoubtedly knowing that he was being talked about, a curious look on his broad brown face. There were no bananas on board. In fact, Mario had never tasted a real banana in his life. Dr. Romano’s pet project had been in accelerated cognition, and his project’s Phase II had required non-human primate subjects – despite having access to a pool of human subjects, he wasn’t so bold as to try experimental techniques on them without proving the concept on monkeys. That wouldn’t be proper. To that end, he had secured a line of mutated baboon stock for the Project’s use. They were used in other experiments, as well, but his cognitive studies had been the focus of their existence. Through a combination of genetic surgery, neurochemical alchemy, and a stunning number of other techniques Romano had successfully improved the brain-power of his pet baboons by orders of magnitude. According to his well-publicized (on the ship, at least) results, each of his simian subjects had the equivalent brainpower of a four-year-old human. He had created the smartest monkeys in the ‘verse. Of course, the Alliance wasn’t looking for smart monkeys. Or even smart people. His scientific achievement had largely been ignored by his benefactors, and as a result the remaining stock had been languishing in their cages for years. A dozen or so were employed as messengers and servants by the white coats, but they were no more than living artifacts, reminders of achievement that no one cared for. Mario, arguably the smartest of the lot (he had picked up a few basic hand-signs usually only mastered by chimps, gorillas, and orangutans) was Romano’s personal servant, and spent most of his time dusting the awards and books and picking up around his master’s office. There was an ironic joke in there, he was sure, but McNab hadn’t been able to put it to words. At that, McNab knew full well, the monkeys were held in higher esteem by the researchers than his men. He didn’t resent them for that, even so. They were animals. They were funny. They were cute. They didn’t riot or complain bitterly about their rights under the Geneva Codes while horrific experiments were conducted on them. Were their situations reversed, he’d probably like the monkeys better, too. “I’m assuming that this isn’t a social call, Colonel,” Romano said, after a moment. “Nor a complaint about the lack of kite flying.” “No, I’m afraid that was a ruse,” McNab said, apologetically. “Actually, I was bored, and took the opportunity to come forward and ask you to put the rumours to rest.” “Rumors?” Romano asked, amused. “What is it this time? The War is over? The King is dead? The Captain has been replaced by Mario’s second cousin?” “I heard it was an uncle, but you know how rumours are. No, Doctor, there’s been a lot of whispering in the village about the possibility . . . of an inspection.” “An . . . inspection,” Romano said, steepling his fingers under his chin and peering intently at McNab. It was a gesture calculated to intimidate. McNab had stared into the loaded barrel of a cannon before. He wasn’t intimidated. “How interesting. An inspection by whom, might I ask?” “By the Red Crystal, says one group. By a joint delegation of Independent and Alliance officers in preparation for a general prisoner exchange, runs another. Both, I might add, have not a precious shred of evidence between them. But I got them from two different places, at about the same time, so I thought I’d have a chat with your noble self and hear the crushing denial.” “Did you, now. Well, Colonel, for once I’m able to deny you that burden. There will be an inspection, of sorts. I’m breaking security by telling you this—” “I promise not to reveal anything to Independent High Command,” vowed McNab solemnly, earning a wry smile from the doctor. “—word has come about an inspection. From Londinium. The details are sketchy, yet, but apparently an envoy is being dispatched to our humble mote in the sky to see what we’ve been doing. For the War effort,” he added. “There are apparently those who fail to see the value in our endeavors, and this . . . envoy will help determine the continuation of the Project.” “I . . . I’m not sure how I feel about that, to tell the truth,” confessed McNab. “The chance for a transfer to a groundside billet—” “You might not consider it an improvement, in retrospect,” warned Romano. “No, the other POW camps are rather wretched in comparison. Indeed, it’s the superb way we treat you Browncoats that is partially responsible for this unprecedented – and unwarranted – level of attention. If things go poorly, you might just find yourself fighting the elements on the penal colony at Silverhold. Or terraforming some airless rock. Or slogging through mud in rice paddies on Xiao. So consider carefully before you consider sabotaging this inspection, Colonel. Think of the welfare of your people.” “Oh, I am, I am,” assured McNab, thinking furiously. “Don’t want to leap into the fire when the billie is so cozy. Still . . . if there was some incentive for my folk to step up and put your efforts here in a good light . . .” “Bribes, McNab?” scoffed Romano lightly. “I thought I knew you better.” “You were clearly mistaken, then. Oh yes, a few bribes might go over very well, Administrator. Say . . . if things go well, we get to convert the portside phytotron into a real recreation area. At least big enough for a football field. And we get some grass, real grass seed. We promise not to eat it. A bump in rations wouldn’t hurt, either.” “That . . . well, that is a possibility. I’ll have to confer with the Director to coordinate, of course . . .” “Of course. And . . . well, what do you intend to do about . . . Down Below?” “The Hell Levels?” chuckled Romano without amusement. “We’re going to keep him the hell away from them, is what. And if he insists . . . well, we’ll just have to show him the ugly truth. The fact that he might not come back from such an inspection . . .” the Administrator gave a gallic shrug. “Who can say whether that would be such a bad thing?” “I see. Well, Doctor, I could virtually guarantee exemplary behavior from my people if they knew that there was something in it for them. The field and the food would be nice but . . . letters from home, that would ensure that there would be no shenanigans.” It was a bold move. But the Administrator had shown a willingness to bargain, and he had to push it. They hadn’t received communications from home in over a decade. Security, the Administration had insisted, but that was feh hua and everyone knew it. Letters from home were a guaranteed right under the Geneva Codes. Redacted, censored, expurgated, sure, but there were proper ways to allow communication without giving away State secrets. Romano eyed him, calculating. He searched McNab with those eagle-eyes of his. Finally he sighed. “Very well. If this inspection goes well, I’ll have a few years worth of correspondence released as a token of my appreciation. That should be incentive enough for you people.” “Thank you!” smiled McNab. “Thank you very much, Doctor! I’ll spread the news at once. We’ll clean the place up, get everyone in order, issue the proper happy faces and we’ll make sure that things stay spiffy until we see the inspector to the door!” Inside, McNab’s heart was turning to ice. Something was terribly wrong. He knew, vaguely, why communications had been restricted for so long. In ten years Romano hadn’t budged on this issue, not once, not even a little. Even when the demons of Below had gotten loose, even when fire had broken out in Lab Three, nothing had made him relent. The prisoners had been kept strictly incommunicado for so long McNab had grown used to it. But something had changed, and Romano had let it slip. He had given in too quickly. Which meant either that he anticipated a clean inspection – which was utterly impossible – or he anticipated that the Project would be closed by nuclear hellfire. Still, he pumped the doctor’s hand like a novice politician and was smiling like it was his birthday. Had to keep a front up, after all. Couldn’t let the man suspect that he suspected. “Speaking of which,” he continued as he started to leave, “just what kind of time-frame are we talking about? Days? Weeks? Months? Might let me know how to prioritize the housecleaning.” “Actually, Colonel,” Romano said, mildly, “I confess I have not the slightest idea. You see, this will be a primarily military inspection, it seems. My office wasn’t even notified directly, the Captain was. And he did not make me privy to the details. So plan on days but hope for months. And make it good, Colonel. There’s an awful lot riding on this. Oh, and just to preclude any . . . unpleasantness? The concentration of Pax in the Brown Zone will be increased by fifteen percent. I hope you understand.” “I . . . I do, Administrator,” he agreed, reluctantly. “I suppose I’d do the same in your position.” Actually, if I were in your position, McNab thought to himself as he left, I’d get Mario over there to cut my bloody throat and hope no one ever found my body.