Exodus: Empires at War: Book 2 (15 page)

Her thoughts were
interrupted by the door to her cell sliding open.  She looked up to see one of
the Imperial Investigation Bureau interrogators standing in the doorway, his
cold eyes looking into hers while a tight smile played across his face.

Damned sadist
, she thought, standing
up from the bed that served as her seat, the one piece of furniture in the
Spartan room.  She noted that the two guards were with the questioner.  There
were always two of them, always armed with sonic stunners.  As if she would be
crazy enough to try to out muscle them.

“I hope you have some
new questions for me today,” she told the man as he walked into the room.  The
floor extruded a chair, the same kind of comfortable chair all the
interrogators used.

“I would not make light
of your situation,” said the man, sitting in the chair while the two guards
flanked him.  He activated a flat screen comp he had pulled from his belt,
looked it over for a moment, then turned a baleful gaze toward the scientist.

“Oh, I’m not making
light of anything,” said Lucille, anger getting the better of her fear.  “I’m
not making light of the fact that you have come in here to question me fourteen
times in the last two days.  That you always ask me the same questions.  That
you have not allowed me to talk with an attorney.  I make light of nothing.”

“An Imperial judge has
waived your right to counsel,” said the interrogator, leaning forward.

“Waived my right,” said
Lucille, shocked that such a thing was possible.  “But it’s a, right.”

“Not in a case of
regicide,” said the interrogator.

“But I’m innocent,”
said Lucille, putting her face in her hands and feeling the tears she thought
were exhausted come dripping from her eyes.

“All the tests agree
with that statement,” said the interrogator, looking down at his flat pad.

Lucille felt shock
again, followed by rage.  She started to stand up, to tower over the man, but
the guards waved their stun guns and she was forced to retreat back to her
seat.  “If everything you have proves my innocence,” she stammered, “then why
are you doing this?”

“All tests showed that
everyone aboard that fighter were totally loyal to the Imperial family,” said
the man, shaking his head.  “Everyone was clean to the best of our ability to
detect, by processes that had never failed.  But they failed, and the Imperial
family died at the hands of their own protectors.  Which gives us little trust
in the tests that have cleared you as well.”

“That’s insane,”
screamed Lucille, pounding her fists into her legs.  “That’s fucking insane. 
You can’t prove I’m guilty, and by all the tests you can devise I’m innocent. 
But you don’t trust the fucking tests.  So I’m supposed to rot here forever.”

“That seems to sum it
up,” said the interrogator.  “If you had stayed in the chamber and died we
would of course clear you of any complicity.”

“So If I died I would
have been cleared,” said Lucille, her voice rising in hysteria.  “That sounds
like a fucking witch trial solution.  Why don’t you just dump me in the water,
and if I drown I’m innocent.”

The interrogator shook
his head and got to his feet.  “If you would just cooperate we could finish
here, and get on with our lives.”

“You mean confess,”
said Lucille, shaking her head.  “Confess to something I know nothing about. 
And then I will be set free?”

“Of course not,” said
the man, walking toward the door, the two guards following while keeping their eyes
toward the prisoner.  “Then you will be executed, and the rest of us can go
back to life as normal.”

“But not me,” said
Lucille, watching the chair collapse back into the floor.  “Because I will be
dead.”

“The alternative is to
spend the rest of your life here, being questioned,” said the man, the door
opening before him.  “I would not wish that on my worst enemy.”

With a last look at the
prisoner he was out the door, the guards following.  The door slid closed, and
Lucille was once more alone.  At least for the moment.  Until they scheduled
the next session, and she was again confronted with the nightmare that her life
had become.

Chapter 6

In ages past many
predicted that man would no longer have any need of God.  That science would
explain everything that needed explanation.  But as science has progressed, and
man has progressed, it seems that the Universe is just as mysterious as ever,
if not more so.  And man still has a need of God.

Pope Charles IV, Reformed
Catholic Church.

Sunday was a day of
rest.  At least in theory, and when he was not at reserve training.  But today
Katlyn had wanted to attend church, voicing the opinion that they needed to get
into a congregation for support and comfort.  So here they were, in their best
clothing, sitting in the pews of one of the churches that had sprung up in the
village of Neu Romney, that nearest to their farm.

He had to admit that
the minister was good, if not what he was used to.  He and Katlyn had been Neo
Methodists on New Detroit.  There was a church of that denomination in
Frederick, but not out here in the village.  And it was too damned far to
travel just to sit in an hour service.

“And God said that we
should love our neighbors as ourselves,” intoned the Minister of the Reformed
Christian Church of the Stars, a portly looking middle aged man with bright
eyes and a ready smile.  “And that means all of our neighbors, human and
alien.  Christ said that if a man strikes your cheek you should turn the other
to him.  But what of the man who makes ready to smite you with his sword?”

The preacher stopped
talking for a moment, letting the question sink in to the congregation.  There
were over three hundred people in the church for the service, about three
quarter’s capacity, which was very good for a village this size with more than
a dozen houses of worship.

“The old testament
shows that our God could be a warrior God,” said the preacher, looking from eye
to eye in the congregation.  “He did not condone murder, or violence for its
own sake.  But he also did not allow for enemies to kill his faithful with
impunity.  The Israelites formed armies, and smote their foes, and God smote
their foes.  As we are expected to smite our foes, to protect those that we
love.”

“That was a great
sermon, preacher,” said Cornelius, shaking the man’s hand as he and Katlyn left
the church.

“I’ve not seen you
around before, have I?” asked the minister, looking Cornelius in the eye.

“I don’t think so,”
said the Walborski, returning the gaze.  “I work a farm outside of town.  About
the only time I get into town is when I have to pick up supplies, or during
militia weekends.”

“They’re good to have
around, those boys,” said the minister, keeping a tight hold on the farmer’s
hand.  “I’m retired Imperial Army myself.  Got to be a colonel before they
decided I needed to do something else.”

“It seems like every
other person on this planet is retired Army, Navy or Marines,” said Cornelius,
as the man released his hand.

“Once you’ve seen the
Galaxy it’s hard to go home,” agreed the minister with a nod.  “Good to see
you.  Come by the rectory someday and we’ll have a talk.”

Cornelius was now aware
of the impatient people behind him trying to get a word with the preacher and
then move on to the rest of their day.  He guided Katlyn by the arm and moved
her down the walkway and out to the sidewalk.

“I like him,” said
Kaylyn, looking back at where the preacher was still greeting people coming out
of the church.

“We can come back if
you like,” said Cornelius, nodding his head.  “Sunday after next.”

Katlyn looked
disappointed for a moment, then nodded her head.  “Because you got drill next
weekend.”

“No reason you can’t
come by yourself” said Walborski with a smile.  “Be good to establish our
presence with a minister, in case we need the kind of help they can give.”

“You fucking asshole,”
yelled a voice from the sidewalk ahead.  “How dare you show yourself in my
neighborhood?”

Cornelius looked over,
his face reddening as he looked at the man he hated most on this world. 
I
can’t help it if I’m not much of a soldier
, he thought, looking at the face
of the First Sergeant.  The man had slurred his words, and was obviously
drunk. 
On a Sunday morning
, was Walborski’s next thought, until he saw
the Church of Satan symbol on the front of the man’s shirt, hanging from a gold
chain.

“I asked you a
question, you fucking maggot,” yelled the man in a slur, stomping up to the
pair.  “What the hell are you doing in my fucking neighborhood, you shit
licking excuse for a man.”

“I would thank you to
not talk that way in front of my wife,” said Walborski, his own temper rising
against his better judgment.  He was sure the man could take him apart in a
second.  He was also sure he wouldn’t back down with his wife here.

“I don’t give a damn
about the slut,” roared the part time NCO, pushing his face into Walborski’s. 
“The fucking whore chose you as a man, which just goes to show that she’s not
only a slut, but a stupid slut.”

That was all that
Cornelius could take.  He swung a fist at the man, hoping that maybe the First Sergeant
was drunk enough that he would get hit before he knew it.  No such luck, and
the Top Sergeant blocked the blow easily, then hit Cornelius in the chest with
what seemed like a sledge hammer.

Cornelius fell to the
ground, hard upon his back, looking up at the angry drunken face of the part
time NCO that thought he wasn’t worth the meat he came wrapped in.  Katlyn
tried to pull the man away, but he flung her around with a strong arm, then
pushed her stumbling away.  The Top Sergeant then kicked Cornelius once in the
buttocks, then again in the arm.  The second kick hit proper and Walborski
cried out as a bone in his arm snapped.

“Get up, you son of a
bitch,” yelled the militia First Sergeant, bringing his leg back for another
kick.  “Get up, you sorry excuse for a soldier.”

Cornelius tried to get
up.  He wanted to hit the man with all his strength, knowing that he would just
get knocked down again.  The Top Sergeant started to move his leg forward in a
kick when a hand landed on his shoulder and spun him around.

“Who the fuck are you?”
yelled the drunken Top Sergeant.  “Oh, the fucking preacher.  Well, I’m going
to hurt your Christian ass too.”

The top brought back
his fist and the preacher hit him in the face with a hand that was a blur.  The
Top Sergeant went down, falling into the churchyard grass to lay still.

“Are you alright, son,”
said the preacher, kneeling down beside Cornelius, while Katlyn came and knelt on
the other side.

“Where did you learn to
lay out a man like that?” asked the farmer, sitting up and cradling his arm.

“I forgot to tell you,”
said the preacher with a smile.  “I was a Ranger officer.”

“That explains it,”
said Cornelius, looking back over at Katlyn.  “Rangers don’t wear battle
armor.  It gives them away.  So they get augmented instead.”

“And once a ranger,”
said the smiling preacher, “always a ranger.  Now let’s get you some medical
attention.”

“What about the First Sergeant?”
asked Cornelius, looking over at the now snoring man.

“Don’t you worry about
him,” said the preacher.  “I’m sure the militia will have a slot somewhere for
another private.”

*     *     *

Gabriel Len Lenkowski
had enjoyed his job as Chief of Naval Operations.  Of working with the Fleet,
and in particular with this Emperor.  But the Emperor was gone, and he knew
little about the son who was now first in line for succession.  If he was still
alive, that is.

The Admiral looked out
over the city as he walked along the roof of the Hexagon, the military
headquarters for the Empire.  The huge office building stood almost a kilometer
in height, dwarfed by the many megascrapers of the city.  It outdid any of them
in girth, more like an Arcology than an office building.  And it extended under
the earth for several more kilometers, ending in the bunker like shelters that
were proof against all but heavy kinetic rounds or warheads in the gigaton
range.

“You ready to launch?”
he asked the crew chief as soon as he entered the shuttle that was waiting on
the landing platform.

“As soon as you strap
in, sir,” said the senior CPO who chiefed the Admiral’s personal craft.  “You
of course want your usual position?”

“Of course, chief,”
said the Admiral, walking past the crewman to the cockpit hatch, which opened
at his approach.  Len slid into the chair next to the pilot and strapped
himself in.

“Welcome aboard sir,”
said the pilot, a young Lt. Commander.  “Wish the circumstances were better.”

“Me too, Sally,” said
the Admiral, trying to force a smile on his face that would not come.  “Me too. 
Just get me up to the
Valkyrie
pronto, and we can get this business over
with.