Christopher Nuttall - Democracy's Might

Tiberius hesitated, then nodded. “I don’t know what the Families Council would say,” he said, darkly. “Did you hear of any other negotiators?”

Gwendolyn and Pompey exchanged glances. “No,” Gwendolyn said, finally. “But that doesn’t prove anything.”

“I know,” Tiberius agreed. He looked down at the table. “If they choose to object to sending messengers…”

Pompey snorted, rudely. “Let us be clear on this,” he said. “We have lost two out of three Class-III shipyards. We have lost the Morrison Fleet, plus any number of smaller formations that tried to slow the rebels down. Right now, Home Fleet is the last deployable formation under our control. Everything else is either tied down or unable to reach Earth in time to be of service. We are, in short, in a very weak position.

“The rebels, by contrast, are riding high. They’ve punched out the only real threat to their positions, allowing them to advance on Earth. Their morale is sky-high, their determination to bring us to our knees driving them forwards… and they know that they will not have a better chance to win outright. This is not the time to haggle. I think we should seek terms as soon as the rebels enter this star system.”

“I know that,” Tiberius snapped. “But I don’t speak for everyone.”

“Then talk the council into it,” Pompey said. “Because if the rebels take the system by force, they won’t be inclined to offer us anything. And why the hell should they?”

Tiberius nodded. “But how do we know they will keep their word?”

He stood. “I want to speak with one of the prisoners,” he added. He’d contemplated it as soon as the prisoners had arrived on Earth, but he hadn’t had the time. “And then I will talk to the council.”

Imperial Intelligence , Jeremy considered, must be going soft .

There had been a very brief mind probe, bad enough to give him headaches every time he’d looked into a bright light, and then nothing. The intelligence officers had tried to sweet talk him into doing what they wanted, then even offering large bribes, but they hadn’t tried to force him to talk again. It was odd, definitely. Perhaps someone had finally convinced them of the value of honouring promises of good treatment… or perhaps someone had merely decided to leave the prisoners to stew in their own juices.

He looked around the cell, wondering if boredom would eventually drive him to talk. It was a larger cell than he’d expected, but it was bare apart from a bunk and toilet. One wall had been replaced completely by metal bars, allowing the guards to see him at all times. If there was anyone else in the complex, he hadn’t been able to see or talk to them. But then, isolation was probably part of the softening up process.

And he had no idea where he was. They’d moved him to a ship for several weeks, then transferred him to a planetary surface, but he’d lost track of time completely. It felt as if the universe had shrunk down to the prison cell. It could have been months or years since he’d been taken captive. Maybe the rebellion was over, maybe Colin was dead… there were days when he had to force himself not to dwell on the possibilities. There were too many days when he seriously considered just trying to end his life.

He looked up as four armoured guards stepped up to the bars and motioned for him to stand up and come forward. They were always masked, completely faceless, but he had seen enough of them to tell that there were seven guards assigned to watching him. It was easy to tell the difference if he studied the way they moved. Most of them were surprisingly disciplined too, compared to the rumours he’d heard. Perhaps Imperial Intelligence handed out random brutality on a carefully calculated schedule.

Or maybe they’re still trying to soften me up , he thought, as he reached the bars and thrust his hands through the gap. The guards pushed his hands back; tiredly, he turned around and allowed them to cuff his hands behind his back. They never seemed to relax around him, even though they had to know that he wasn’t augmented into superhumanity. Every time they took him out of the cell, he was cuffed and shackled to restrict his movements. And they rarely bothered to speak to him.

They hustled him down a long dark corridor and into a smaller interrogation room. It looked exactly the same as the room on Morrison, complete with chair and save for the absence of an interrogator. The guards sat him down in the chair, chained him down so thoroughly he could barely move a muscle, then withdrew, leaving him alone. Jeremy glanced around, puzzled. Was his interrogator even present or was this just another mental game?

He looked up as a hidden door in the metal wall cracked open, revealing a young man with short blonde hair and surprisingly handsome features. Jeremy had no difficulty in recognising the signs of extensive genetic engineering and modification, even though they were more elaborate than anything he’d seen away from a high-gravity world. The man carried himself like he was in charge. And yet, Jeremy realised, he hadn’t really seen a holding cell before at all.

“Well,” Jeremy said, finally. “Who are you?”

The man sat down and faced Jeremy. “Does it matter?”

“It could,” Jeremy said.

“I wish to apologise for your treatment,” the man said. “There was some… dispute over how best to handle rebel POWs.”

Jeremy snorted. “Do you think that apologising will be sufficient?”

“Perhaps not,” the man said. “My name is Tiberius. Does that mean anything to you?”

Jeremy took a longer look at his features. He’d never been one of the officers who studied the aristocracy with a pathetic intensity, but he knew the major players. “Tiberius Cicero?”

“Yes,” Tiberius said. “I need to speak with you.”

“You seem to have me at a disadvantage,” Jeremy said. He rattled his chains meaningfully. “And you seem to have a captive audience, if a powerless one. What do you want to say?”

“Your commander has taken Morrison,” Tiberius informed him. “And he is on his way to Earth.”

Jeremy considered it. Assuming he was speaking to the real Cicero, he was on Earth. And if news of Morrison’s fall had only just arrived, it was clear that the rebel feel might be hard on its heels. If Colin had taken Morrison, there would be nothing between him and Earth. No wonder the guards were treating him oddly. The prospect of brutal retaliation had to be alarmingly clear.

“I will believe you, for the moment,” he said. “What does that have to do with me?”

Tiberius looked surprised. “Why do you doubt me?”

Jeremy laughed at him. “You don’t think Imperial Intelligence is full of little tricks?”

“I am me,” Tiberius said. “Your commander has offered us our lives, if we surrender.”

“Then take it,” Jeremy advised. “You won’t get a better offer.”

Tiberius met his eyes. “How do we know you — he — will keep his word?”

“The same guarantee you offered to my crew and myself,” Jeremy said. “I was promised good treatment, as I recall.”

“Point,” Tiberius said. “But we cannot just surrender.”

“Then gamble on victory,” Jeremy said. He sighed, loudly enough to be irritating. “Why did you even come here if you are reluctant to trust our word?”

“I wanted to know if your commander could be trusted,” Tiberius said.

Jeremy snorted. “Colin is a decent person,” he said. “Perhaps too decent, at times. You and your families would not be treated badly, if you accepted his terms. But I don’t think that you could keep your power and place, not now. You’ve done too much damage to humanity.”