“Ah, Commander,” said the Marine, wondering how he’d complete the sentence. “I’m not clear why my unit rather than . . .”
Rather than anybody else in the universe.
“Your daughter was involved in this?” asked the hologrammic interrogator. “Where is she now?”
“She’s only eight! For god’s sake—”
Sitterson made a petulant gesture; the AI in his desk cut the sound though not the visuals from the three interrogations.
The security chief leaned over his desk and smiled meaningfully at Kowacs. “I know how to handle collaborators, Captain,” he said. “And so do you—I’ve heard what went on on Target. That’s why I asked for the 121st.”
For a moment, Kowacs couldn’t feel the chair beneath him. His body trembled; his mind was full of images of his drop into the Khalian slave pens on Target—and the human trustees there, with their torture equipment and the abattoir with which they aped the dietary preferences of their Khalian masters.
Every trustee in his sight-picture memory wore the features of Commander Sitterson.
Kowacs didn’t trust himself to speak—but he couldn’t remain silent, so he said, “Sir, on Target the prisoners were turning out electronics, stuff the weasels can’t make for themself.”
He lurched out of his chair because he needed to move and by pacing toward the wall he could innocently break eye contact with the security chief. “That stuff, giving the weasels produce so they don’t put you on the table instead—that’s not collaboration, sir, that’s flat-ass survival. It’s not the same as—”
But the words brought back the memories, and the memories choked Kowacs and chilled his palms with sweat.
“Well, Captain,” Sitterson said as he straightened slightly in his chair. “If I didn’t have responsibility for the safety of the hundred and forty thousand Fleet and allied personnel, stationed in this district, I might be able to be as generous as you are.”
The commander’s stern expression melted back into a smile. “Still,” he went on, “I think your real problem is that you’re afraid you won’t see any action working with me. I’ll show you how wrong you are.
“Send in Colonel Hesik,” he told his desk. The door opened almost on the final syllable to pass the tall man.
Kowacs started to rise but Sitterson did not, gesturing the newcomer to a chair.
“Hesik here,” the commander said, “was head of the resistance forces in the district before our landing. He’s been working closely with me, and—” he winked conspiratorially toward the Bethesdan, “I don’t mind telling you, Captain, that he’s in line for very high office when we come to set up a civilian government.”
Hesik grinned in response. The scar on his right cheek was concealed by his neatly groomed beard, but it gave his face a falsely sardonic quirk when he tried to smile.
“Tell Captain Kowacs what happened to your unit three months ago, Hesik,” Sitterson ordered.
“Yes sir,” said the indig—who had better sense than to try to make something of his shadow “rank,” which if real would have made him the senior officer in the room. He was willing to act as Sitterson’s pet—for the reward he expected when the Fleet pulled out again.
“We were organized by Lieutenant Bundy,” Hesik said. He kept his eyes trained on a corner of the room, and there was a rote quality to his delivery.
“Technical specialists were landed six months ago to stiffen local resistance,” Sitterson added in explanation. “Bundy was a top man. I knew him personally.”
“We were hitting the weasels, hurting them badly,” Hesik resumed. His voice had bright quivers which Kowacs recognized, the tremors of a man reliving the past fears which he now cloaked in innocent words. “There were other guerrilla units in the district too—none of them as effective as we were, but good fellows, brave . . . Except for one.”
The Bethesdan swallowed. As if the bobbing of his Adam’s apple were a switch being thrown, his head jerked down and he glared challengingly at Kowacs. “This other unit,” he said, “kept in close touch with us—but they never seemed to attack the Khalia. Avoiding reprisals on innocent civilians, they explained.”
One of the hologram civilians had collapsed on the floor. Her interrogator stood splay-legged, gesturing with a shock rod which did not quite touch the civilian.