“Yessir,” Sienkiewicz said. With her extra bandoliers of ammunition and grenades, and the heavy, meter-long plasma weapon slung behind her hips against need, she looked like a supply train on legs.
Hell, he did want her around.
The cells were open and empty. The guard and the trio of petty-officer interrogators saluted the security chief as he stepped past them, then roughly took the prisoners from the marines and pushed them into the cells—the men alone, the women in pairs. One of the women held the infant. The doors clanged shut when the cells were filled.
In the outer office, Sitterson said, “You can wait here.” Not as brusque as “Wait here,” but the same meaning. His entourage—Kowacs a big man, Sienkiewicz huge, and Hesik looking thin and trapped—glanced at one another and at the petty officer behind the desk. There wasn’t enough room for any of them to sit on the couch.
“Gliere,” the security chief said as an afterthought on his way to his private quarters. “Get the number from Kowacs’ helmet and see to it that the recordings go to File Thirteen. The whole company. You know the drill.”
“Yes sir,” Gliere replied. “Just a minute while I take care of the cells.”
The non-com was watching miniature holos of the holding area. He touched a switch on his desk. Another of the cells closed with a ringing impact.
Sitterson was back within five minutes. He was wearing a fresh uniform; the skin of his face and hands was pink with the enthusiasm with which he had scrubbed himself.
Kowacs hoped the security chief never learned how hot the trucks really were. He’d order a court-martial, beyond any question. It was easy to forget just how nervous rear echelon types got about their health and safety.
“All right,” the security chief said brightly. “Let’s get down to it, shall we? Gliere, we’ll take the man in the end cell.”
Andy.
“He thinks he’s tough.” Sitterson added with a laugh which Hesik echoed.
Kowacs said nothing. He tossed his automatic rifle to Sienkiewicz and gestured her to stay where she was. The corporal’s grimace could have meant anything.
Andy tried to walk when they moved him across the aisle into an interrogation room, but he was barely able to stand. He had no clothes to strip off. The sealant/analgesic Sienkiewicz had sprayed on from her first aid kit had dried to mauve blotches like the camouflage of a jungle animal.
When the door shut behind them, the boy wavered and caught himself on the room’s small table.
“Attention, damn you!” Sitterson ordered, pulling out his shock rod.
“Why are you doing this to me?” the boy cried. Delirium, drugs, and the decay toxins loosed by his injuries turned his voice into a wail of frustration.
“Why didn’t you turn yourselves in?” Sitterson shouted. “Why were you hiding out with your guns?”
“We did call in!” Andy said. “And your toady Hesik said wait, he’d send vehicles for us.”
“Liar!” Hesik said as he swung the butt of his pistol at the boy’s mottled forehead.
You don’t learn a damned thing from dead prisoners, and the blow would have killed had it landed.
It didn’t land because Kowacs caught the Bethesdan colonel’s wrist in one hand and twisted the weapon away with the other as easily as if Hesik were a child.
“Sir,” Kowacs said to the security chief. “I think this’ll go better if you and I do it alone for a bit, you know?”
“He’ll lie!” Hesik said. The marine wasn’t looking at him, but his grip was as tight as it needed to be.
Kowacs shrugged toward Sitterson. “He’ll talk,” he said simply. “Dead, he won’t talk.”
Sitterson’s expression was unreadable. At last he said, “Yes, all right. You and I. Hesik, wait outside. Don’t worry.”
“He’ll lie!” the Bethesdan repeated, but the tension went out of his muscles and Kowacs let him go.
Kowacs handed back the pistol. His eyes were on Hesik, and they stayed on him until the door closed again behind the Bethesdan.
“We can have him back anytime,” Kowacs said without emotion to the prisoner. “We can leave the two of you alone, or we can help him with you. If you don’t want that, start talking now.”