Fracture Lines (The Glass Complex Book 2) Read online

  “We—well, the head of therapy and myself, are also perplexed. We can’t suggest any explanation unless somehow you have invented time travel.”

  The doctor’s comment stabbed at Steg. He knew time travel was supposed to be impossible, yet something deep in the back of his memories stirred, attracted by the suggestion.

  “Well, at least I tried,” reasoned Steg. “I can’t think of anything else to do, to protect myself against what’s coming.” ImpSec had placed a guard on his door some three days before, and he was now considered to be, informally at least, under arrest.

  Dr. Yi patted his shoulder. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Steg considered the doctor’s question. “Ebony—my sword. I doubt ImpSec will let me take it with me. They’ll dump it somewhere. Can you keep it for me, until all this is over, and if I’m jailed, hold it until I’m free again?”

  “Certainly. I can’t guarantee where I’ll be—”

  “Don’t worry. As long as I know Ebony’s in safe hands. Somehow, I believe it’s important, very important, for me.”

  He stood and walked over to his locker where he reached in for his sword. He lifted it out, removed it from its sheath, and held it in both hands. To his surprise, the hilt, both the pommel and grip, was restored, as was the blade. The weapon now showed no signs of damage at all. Perplexed, he wrapped his right hand around the grip and raised the sword, as though weighing it. Something stirred deep within his mind, a reaction, he thought, to his handling of the now restored weapon. A memory flashed its alert: there was hilt-hidden bio-nanite and other protective technology that not only generated the re-build of the sword but also was keyed to him, to his DNA.

  Steg placed the sheathed blade against a chair beside the doctor. Ebony was longer than the doctor was tall. He was reluctant to part with the sword; he knew it was an important link to his identity.

  “Well, I suppose tomorrow is inevitable.” ImpSec had scheduled his hearing for first thing the following morning. “I feel like a condemned man, yet I know I’m innocent of any wrongdoing.”

  “I spoke with your defending officer yesterday. He’s a professional lawyer. I’ve heard good things about him,” assured Dr. Yi.

  Steg had spent time with his counsel earlier in the day and did not contradict the doctor. Captain Farmer appeared to be well skilled in his chosen profession, but he had been almost brutal with his frank assessment. Steg, despite various ImpSec searches, remained unidentified; there were no records of either his DNA or his fingerprints, and the Empire did not have an organization called the Imperial Intelligence Agency. As far as ImpSec was concerned, the agency did not exist. While Captain Farmer had agreed Steg’s condition was irreconcilable with ImpSec’s claim he was a spy, his presence on xTaur was unauthorized. Steg brought his attention back to the doctor.

  He said, “Yes, we had a good discussion, too. He thinks, if I plead guilty to at least some of the charges, the court will agree to a short sentence.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what I should do.”

  “Some of the medical staff are to give evidence, covering matters such as the suddenness of your appearance, the treatment we gave, and so forth. I’ll be giving evidence. My nurses are wishing the best for you.”

  “Thank you, and please thank your nurses,” acknowledged Steg. “I’m also hoping for the best.”

  “Yes, we all are.”

  ###

  Steg understood the courtroom to be the same facility where ImpSec had conducted their initial enquiry with Dr. Yi. A guard had escorted him to the large room where he now sat at a small table in front of the judges’ bench. He was waiting for his counsel. No one else was yet in attendance. The rows of seats were empty, as were the three larger, more elaborate, seats behind the longer, highly polished judicial bench. After almost thirty minutes, a young lieutenant rushed into the courtroom, almost breathless. He was carrying a small file.

  “Captain—I mean de Coeur. I’m Lieutenant Emerson, your counsel. I’ve some bad news for you—well, it’s more that it’s bad for Captain Farmer, I suppose. He’s had an accident; he’s suffered concussion and a broken leg. This is all so worrying. Unfortunately, I was next on the duty roster.”

  Steg’s heart sank. “How did it happen?” he asked.

  “No one knows. The captain’s still unconscious, and they won’t know until he’s awake. Now, tell me, what are the charges?”

  Steg’s heart sank even further. “I thought Captain Farmer was going to confirm those details this morning.”

  “Oh.” The lieutenant leafed through the small file, searching for the information. “There’s so little information here. He must have his personal notes in another file.”

  Steg wondered why the young officer did not access the ship system where the captain kept his records. People were starting to enter the courtroom: two court officials, three nurses, two of whom he recognized, and some strangers, their presence likely no more than fulfillment of idle curiosity.

  “Lieutenant, I suggest you request a stay of proceedings, because of the captain’s accident.”

  “Oh, no. I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’d be a black mark on my record, if I’m not ready for the trial as scheduled.”

  “This black mark’s more important than ensuring justice is done?”

  The young officer’s face turned red, and he did not reply. He continued to leaf through the file. His lips moved silently as he read each page. Steg realized his chances of a professional defense were rapidly fading.

  “If you don’t request the stay, I will. Even if I must dismiss you.” Steg was grasping at possibilities in an attempt to find a way out of this looming disaster.

  His comment was met with a horrified expression on the lieutenant’s face. “Oh, no. That’s impossible. The schedule’s fixed.”

  “In that case, I dismiss you as my counsel. Give me the file, and get out of my sight.” Steg plucked the file from the shocked junior officer’s loose grip.

  The lieutenant’s jaw dropped. His face had turned from red to ashen. Before he was able to respond, one of the officials, apparently senior, raised his voice and issued a command.

  “Attention in the court. All rise. Silence while the judicial officers enter.” Three ImpSec officers—Steg understood they were the same men who had questioned Dr. Yi—entered the courtroom and took their places behind the long bench. They were chatting quietly, joking and laughing, oblivious to any need for their silence; they would have been taken aback if someone made the point. More minutes passed as the three settled into their seats and shared comments about the contents of files on the bench top. In the meantime, the prosecuting counsel had taken his place at a table twin to the one where Steg was now standing. The senior official waited for another few minutes until one of the military officers gave him a signal.

  “The court is in session. Please be seated. Judges are Colonel Richmond, assisted by Major Rayner and Major Dawson. Our first case today is Emperor v. de Coeur. Prosecuting counsel is Colonel Tanner. Defending counsel is Captain Farmer—” He was interrupted by the other court official who made a comment, inaudible to others in the room. The senior official appeared to be startled. “Apologies—defending counsel is Lieutenant Emerson. Prisoner de Coeur is charged under Articles of War, section 301, with the offense of spying for an unknown enemy. The accused is also charged with trespass, unauthorized boarding of an Imperial hospital ship, and impersonation of an Imperial officer.”

  Steg blanched. Somehow he had trodden on a nest of stingers, and they were after his blood. The unfortunate young lieutenant, his supposed defending counsel, had almost collapsed at the mention of section 301; it seemed this was an extremely serious charge.

  “Thank you. Any comments from counsel?” Colonel Richmond waited. When neither counsel commented, Steg spoke up.

  “Sir. I wish to dismiss Lieutenant Emerson. He has neither briefed himself nor interviewed me prior to this pot
ential miscarriage of justice.”

  “Prisoner de Coeur, you have no standing here that allows you to address the court. All communications must be through the allocated counsel,” replied the colonel.

  “Sir, I protest. The lieutenant’s not capable of representing me. He has no knowledge of the charges, has evinced no intention to establish with me the facts from my perspective, and doesn’t have relevant experience to act in this court.”

  “Silence, de Coeur. I won’t warn you again. If you disrupt this court again, I’ll order you to be removed and you’ll be judged in your absence.”

  Steg was furious and struggled to restrain himself. In his opinion, the proceedings were a farce. Later, when the prosecuting counsel introduced an expert witness who, once he was sworn in, uttered the most bizarre testimony about how the accused must have used an alien craft to approach and dock with the hospital ship, Steg kicked the lieutenant’s ankle with a flash of savagery and showed him a note on which he’d written: “Protest. Irrelevant”. The lieutenant turned his back and ignored the admonition.

  “Sir, I protest.” Steg could no longer restrain himself. “The defending counsel should be objecting to these witnesses and their spurious evidence. This is a travesty. The lieutenant is inept and should be relieved of his role, if not of his commission.”

  The presiding colonel smiled. “You had your warning. You’ll now be removed from the court. You’ll be returned here to listen to the verdict and the sentence.” He directed the court bailiff to remove Steg, who was first chained and manacled, as though he was a violent offender.

  Steg was isolated from all subsequent involvement in his trial. The tiny cell, into which he had been ignominiously dumped, stank of body waste, putrid and potent. It was two hours before he was re-admitted to the ImpSec court. He looked around the courtroom. The medical staff apparently had been dismissed before his entrance. Dr. Yi was not in the room, nor were her nurses. He stared at the colonel, almost daring him to do his worst.

  “Well, prisoner de Coeur, or whatever you call yourself. We’ve heard details from all the witnesses, including some sob story from the medics who treated you. The evidence, in our opinion, is overwhelmingly against you. We therefore find you guilty as charged under Articles of War, section 301, with spying for an unknown enemy. We dismissed the other charges as too minor for the court to consider. We believe Dr. Yi’s diagnosis is correct, in an abstract sense: some injury, which we suggest occurred as a result of your unauthorized access of this hospital ship, has caused your permanent loss of memory. The maximum penalty for this offense in time of war is execution by firing squad. Before we sentence you, do you have anything to say?”

  “This entire hearing’s been a farce. Your lieutenant’s inept. Your court’s acting well outside the normal realms of justice. I protest the decision and the lack of justice.” Steg had realized nothing he said would change the results of the court, given its obvious intention to find him guilty.

  “Indeed. And you offer no details of your mission, of your employers, of your failed and—to use your term—inept—spying attempts? Perhaps to cause us to reduce your sentence?”

  “Sir, I don’t recognize this court—”

  Whatever Steg was intending to say was lost, as he staggered, tried to steady himself against the table, and fell to the floor, unconscious.

  “Bailiff, check the prisoner. I suggest a bucket of water poured over his face will suffice.”

  The court bailiff rolled Steg onto his back and checked for vital signs. He looked up at the colonel. “Sir, this man’s unconscious. His pulse is erratic. I think the medics should handle this.”

  “Oh, very well. Recorder, complete the records and include our sentence.” He looked around the room, frowning as the bailiff tried to make the unconscious man comfortable. “Bailiff, you’re responsible for custody of de Coeur until he can be removed from xTaur and taken to Centyr. The authorities at Diyark Prison can carry out our sentence. Court dismissed.”

  The three officers stood and, joined by the prosecuting counsel, left the room. Lieutenant Emerson gathered his papers and, ignoring the body on the floor, also departed.

  *****

  Chapter 5

  Two ImpSec guards escorted their chained and manacled prisoner into the gray shuttle. The hospital ship barely paused its transit past Centyr, House of Aluta’s prison planet, while a number of shuttles removed prisoners destined for the four prisons on the planet. This prisoner and his escort were the last to board and took their positions at the rear of the craft. The seats were hard plastic, also gray, and their design would never win awards for either comfort or elegance. The guards sat their prisoner, threaded his restraining chains through eyebolts in the floor, and locked them closed. The man they were escorting wore drab institution-issued clothing. He ignored his guards, seemed oblivious of his surroundings, and did not react when the shuttle launched. Thirty or so other prisoners were on board, and they all wore the same anonymous garb, the same downtrodden expression, and the same air of hopelessness. The differences between most of the prisoners and the last man to board was the angry red scar down the left side of his face and his apparent imperviousness to his status.

  There was one other difference. He did not speak. He moved when directed, and stopped when told, but did not answer when asked questions. He did not engage in conversation with his guards or with his fellow prisoners. It was not so much that he did not speak; rather, it seemed he was unable speak. Something had happened, something had brought him to the edge of a chasm that he yet had not crossed, and from which he was not retreating. He was frozen in a mental stasis, forever trying to remember, aware only peripherally of his circumstances. At random moments he would look around, cautious, careful to not engage eye to eye with anyone nearby, after which he would resume his downcast mien, again caught up in his internal mental turmoil.

  The shuttle landed at Diyark Prison, and the prisoners, their leg chains released from the eyebolts, shuffled off the small spacecraft escorted by their alert guards. Some were violent or had reputations for violence. Some were killers. Some were thieves. Some may even have been innocent of their charges. All had fallen foul of ImpSec, fairly or unfairly, and it made no difference. All were chained.

  Guards escorted their charges through their destination’s inbound processes, handing over their captives, their files, and keys to the prison authorities. The guards from the hospital ship re-boarded the shuttle, relieved their responsibilities were at an end. They were anxious to quit themselves of the Centyr system with its four prisons; their harsh reputations were more than deserved. The guards waited in silence as the shuttle pilot performed his pre-flight checks preliminary to returning to xTaur. The shuttle departed with a roar ignored by the disembarked prisoners as they shuffled forward in rows to a line of reception stations.

  The receiving clerk read aloud the file notes preparatory to re-keying the data into the prison’s record system and looked up at the prisoner under escort, now, of two prison guards. “Steg de Coeur. Spy, section 301. Employers unknown. Possible brain damage. Has memory loss and is incapable of speech. Understands basic instructions.” His vocalizing was as much for the benefit of the accompanying guards as for his own purposes. “Are you de Coeur?”

  The prisoner remained silent. One of his guards pushed his shoulder, an ungentle blow. “Answer the man,” the guard directed.

  “It does say “incapable of speech,” reminded the input clerk, checking notes in the folder. “I’ll mark him down for a medical examination. He’s a temporary resident, according to the notes. Cell 511, Block J. He needs to be issued a blanket and eating utensils. Go on, he’s all yours.”

  “Thanks, Harry. See ya,” responded the second guard, tugging on one of the chains securing the prisoner. The group of three moved off; two were eager to deliver their charge, the third, unknowing or uncaring of his whereabouts.

  “And this time remember to bring back the chains.” The shouted reminder
followed their exit.

  The cell was small with floor to ceiling vertical bars on the side opening to the outside world, which consisted of a narrow walkway patrolled by guards. The cell had no external window, and no daylight penetrated its gloom. The bars, the walls, the floor, the ceiling—all were painted the same shade of gray. The thin blanket and even the coarse uniform worn by each prisoner matched the pervasive color scheme. Odors drifted up through the grilled walkways, neither identifiable nor appealing, and permeated the cell.

  All cells were the same: small, featureless, gray, and poorly lit.

  There were armored and recessed video cameras and microphones in each cell, along walkways and corridors, in ceilings, and at patrol intersection points. This equipment was supported by face and voice recognition software, designed to detect prisoners who were out of position or possibly involved in illegal activities. Authorities dealt harshly with infractions, adding penalties of solitary confinement and loss of privileges, although the latter were difficult to identify, as few privileges were available to inmates of Diyark Prison.

  The man in Cell 511, Block J, sat on the edge of his bed, inert, his focus elsewhere. Earlier, he had joined the lines of prisoners when his cell door automatically opened to allow him to exit for his evening meal. A subconscious prompt had ensured he carried his eating utensils: a spoon, fork, and plate, all plastic, none of which provided material for any kind of offensive weapon. He stood with other prisoners, silent, slowly pacing towards the food dispensers. The meal was almost as colorless as the decor of the dining hall and as tasteless. When the meal break ended he was returned to his cell, and again he dropped deeply into some inner world, mentally disengaged as his synaptic repairs continued.

  Two days later, a guard escorted the prisoner, chained again, to medical offices in an adjacent building. The guard exchanged brief words with the medical orderly at the reception desk after which the orderly addressed the prisoner. The man wore the same style uniform; he too was a prisoner.