“Let’s dispose with the tricks, shall we, Colonel?” Gerta said. “This isn’t an interrogation.”
The overhead light dimmed. He blinked and looked at the two Chosen officers. Both women—nothing unusual with that, in the Land’s forces—in gray Army uniforms. Intelligence Section badges. A middle-aged colonel with gray in her blond brushcut and a face like a starved hound.
“Johan Hosten,” the senior officer said. “We have arranged to speak with you on a matter of some importance.”
John nodded. He could guess what was coming.
“The Land of the Chosen has need of your services, Johan Hosten.”
“The Land of the Chosen rejected me rather thoroughly when I was twelve,” he pointed out. “I’m a citizen of the Republic of Santander.”
“The Republic is a democracy with universal suffrage,” the colonel said. “Hence, weak and corrupt, with no real claim on your allegiance.” She spoke in a flat, matter-of-fact tone, as if commenting on the law of gravity. “Your father is second assistant of the general staff of the Land and a member of the Council. The implications are, I think, plain.”
They certainly were. “I’m not Chosen and not qualified to be so,” he said. Think, think. If he rolled over too quickly, they’d be suspicious.
“The regulations governing admittance have been waived or modified before,” the intelligence officer said. “I am authorized to inform you that they will be again, in your case. Full Chosen status, and appropriate rank.”
“You want me to defect?” he said slowly.
“Of course not. You will remain as an agent in place within the Santander intelligence apparat—of course, we know that your diplomatic status is a cover—and provide us with information, and your nominal superiors with disinformation which will be furnished. We can feed you genuine data of sufficient importance so that you will rise rapidly in rank. At the appropriate moment, we will bring you in from the cold.”
She nodded towards Gerta. Ah. They sent Gerta along as an earnest of good faith. The offer probably was genuine. And to the Chosen’s way of looking at it, perfectly natural. Perhaps if he’d never been contacted by Center, it might even have been tempting.
There were times he woke up at night sweating, from dreams of the man he might have become in the Land.
“Let me think,” he said.
“Agreed. But not for long.”
He dropped his head into his hands. Jeff, you following this?
You bet, brother. You going to ask them for something in writing?
Out of character, he answered. A Chosen officer’s word is supposed to be good. I don’t have much time.
Although surely they knew that he knew he’d never leave the room alive if he refused. The embassy could be relied upon to have a way of disposing of bodies.
He raised his head again. No problem in showing a little worry, and he could smell his own sweat, heavy with the peculiar rankness of stress.
“I’m engaged to be married to an Imperial,” he said.
The colonel shrugged. “Marriage is out of the question, of course, but after the conquest, you can have your pick for pleasure. Take the bitch as you please, or a dozen others.”
Gerta winced and touched her superior on the sleeve, whispering in her ear.
John shook his head. “Anything that applies to me, applies to Pia. Or no deal.”
The colonel’s eyes narrowed. “You have already been offered more than is customary,” she warned.
“No. Pia, or nothing.”
Gerta touched the colonel’s sleeve again. “We should discuss this, sir,” she said.
“Agreed. Hosten, retire to the end of the room, please.”
He obeyed, facing away from the table. The two Chosen leaned together, speaking in whispers. Far too softly for anyone to overhear . . . anyone without Center’s processing power, that was. The computer was limited to the input of John’s senses, but it could do far more with them than his unaided brain.
“What do you make of it, captain?” the colonel asked.
“I’m not sure, sir. If he’d agreed without insisting on the woman, I’d have said we should kill him immediately—that would be an obvious fake. The woman . . . that makes it possible he’s sincere . . . but he’d also know that I know him well.”