It had been a risk, and a bet, because no matter how justified Clarke’s suspicions had been, they were still suspicions.
“So, you’re EIF, then,” Clarke prodded.
“Yes, you could say I am. Ruben Antonov, at your service,” the man said. “I’m in charge of the Edge Independence Front, Jagal branch.”
Antonov’s rank made Clarke feel a pang of pity for the man. The local EIF cells were actively persecuted across Metro City and its orbitals. Antonov must’ve spent his entire life in hiding.
In a way, so have I, Clarke thought. The idea blindsided him, and he squashed it as soon as it came. It would be a mistake to relate to the man in front of him.
“Why did you kidnap me?” Clarke asked.
“An ugly, but necessary test,” Antonov said. He paused, glanced at one of the guards by the doors, and raised two fingers at him. The guard left the room at once.
Antonov went on, “Half of the EIF’s prospective members are IA infiltrators. We’re a grassroots organization, Clarke, our members must operate at all times knowing their brothers in arms have their backs. The risk of traitors over their heads would be the death of us.”
“So you stage fake IA kidnappings as job interviews?”
To Clarke, it was a repugnant idea. But on a deeper level…he had been an officer, and he could see the benefits of doing such a thing. No one could know how they would react to an interrogation until it happened. There was only so much a training would do.
It definitely broke the conventions of war, but the EIF was already considered a terrorist organization.
“A man’s mettle is proven by fire, not by psychosomatic studies,” Antonov said. “We’ve learned a great deal out of your test, for example, that we wouldn’t have known if we had approached you in conventional ways.”
“It backfired,” Clarke said. “I agreed to signing the documents. I attacked your man. And I’m not interested in a job offer. Wasn’t before, and sure as well ain’t after your trick.”
“Disagreed,” Antonov said. He raised a distracted hand to the neck of his military uniform and smoothed the fabric. “We liked what we saw, damage to our man notwithstanding. We’ve learned you’re a man who keeps his cool in a hopeless situation, who has motives to dislike Tal-Kader, and who isn’t afraid to take action against dangerous men.”
“The Defense Fleet would laugh at that description,” Clarke said.
“Not all of them,” Antonov said. “I did my research. Almost all the veterans who fought in the Appleseed refuse to call you Craven. They insist you are a hero. The former crew of Asteria Station all agree with the sentiment and painted a different story than that of the official release.”
Asteria Station. That was a name he hadn’t heard in a long time. Once in a while, after the trial was over and Clarke was prowling the bars of Metro City, he met one or two Asteria’s crewmen. Those times, he drank for free. In the end, the veterans had drifted away with the years. The shame of Broken Sky lingered over them all, Clarke included, so he understood the reason well. Seeing another veteran made them remember their failure.
To have this unknown man, who pretended that kidnapping people to play with their minds was a noble and necessary act, talk about Clarke’s past like he had been there…Clarke could feel his heartbeat increase.
“Like I said, whatever you want with me, I am not interested,” he said. He stood up, carefully, as not to scare the guards, who, on a second glance, looked quite young and inexperienced. “Can I go? Or are you willing to kidnap me for real?”
A flash of annoyance crossed Antonov’s eyes, only for an instant, but enough to make Clarke wonder if his bluff was about to be called. Those guards may be young, but sonic batons cared not an ounce about age difference.
Before Antonov or Clarke could add anything else, the door opened again, and the guard who had left appeared on the doorway carrying a tray with two glasses and a decanter filled with amber liquid.
“Aren’t you willing to discuss our offer over a glass of scotch? It’s the real thing, not the artificial deal they serve in Metro bars,” said Antonov.
The casual display of wealth made Clarke’s knees weak. Earth-made booze wasn’t something you just bought in the Edge’s markets. Then, he recovered and made his way to the door.
“Next time, start with that, Antonov. It will have to be with the next guy; I’m out.”
He made it to the door at the exact time another person appeared at the frame. Clarke’s eyes widened in recognition.
It was Julia. She grabbed at the guard’s whiskey glass and extended it to Clarke with a grim twist set on her lips.
“Clarke,” she said, “you should hear us out.”
So I was right, Clarke thought, grimly. Julia had betrayed him, but not to the SA. He should have seen it coming. She was married to her cause.
He regarded her with a look that would’ve frozen lava. Julia held his gaze. It was he who looked away first, in Antonov’s direction.
Right on cue, the man stood up and walked to them. Then, he said:
“The Front needs your help, Clarke. We are launching a rescue operation to a Backwater System. Planet Dione, Elus Star System. We need someone with experience to lead it, someone who is no friend of Tal-Kader. If you agree, we’ll make it worth your trouble.”
Clarke regarded him with a distrustful look.
“As you know, we have friends in the Systems Alliance. Some of them are sponsors of the Defense Fleet. As we speak, they are looking at your case, and have agreed to reopen it. Your discharge may be overruled, Clarke. You could have your name cleared. Hell, if you wanted to, we could have you reinstated as a Fleet officer.”
Clarke blinked. It was hard to control himself. Antonov’s words sounded like a devil promising a tired traveler a magic wish.
“But only if I help you,” he said at last.
“Yes,” said Antonov, his eyes glinting in triumph, the very image of a man who knows he just made an irrefusable offer.
5
CHAPTER FIVE
DELAGARZA
“The problem is leaving the planet with her,” the man told him, a distant voice half-distorted by the water. “Don’t act without an escape route.”
Delagarza woke up without knowing where, or who, he was. His gloomy surroundings were a compulsion of shadows and sharp shapes, his mind a spinning plate that failed to make sense of reality.
A half-scream died in the back of his throat; it brought to his mouth the taste of ashes. That tiny detail—he was a smoker—was enough to break the enchantment.
Details and sense came back in a flood. The place was his bedroom, and the snakes that constricted him were bedsheets soaked in sweat.
He stood up, his teeth clenched so hard it hurt. He stumbled his way to the bathroom where the mirror was waiting for him. Staring back at his reflection was like dousing his face in water and washed away the remains of his nightmare.
From inside the mirror, a gaunt face stared back at him. Hard cheekbones, stubble that was about to become an unkempt beard, raven black hair. His eyes had a hint of epicanthic folds. Soft gray pupils, the surrounding white reddened due to lack of sleep. Like everyone in the Edge, his heritage was mixed. Main features came from Japan, Madagascar, and either Argentina or Brazil—he wasn’t sure.
The worst had passed already. Remembering his past helped. He ventured that there would be no more nightmares tonight if he could go back to sleep.
Delagarza returned to his bedroom, fast, feet hating the carpet, which the personal life-support machine of his loft left cold and damp, like grass before sunrise.
What had he dreamed about? No use busting his back over it. He could never remember.