In the cell next to him Turnman shook his head, lowered his eyes and said, “Cut the crap, Crowley. You ain’t fooling nobody.”
“But I ain’t done nothing,” Crowley pleaded.
Darmczek leaned close to him, their noses only inches apart. “You were a fucking snitch, Crowley. And if I could, I’d wring your neck myself.”
Crowley backed away from Darmczek. “You can’t prove that.”
Darmczek shook with rage. “You don’t think everyone knew, Crowley? You don’t think we all knew exactly what was going on? The only reason we didn’t kill you in the camps was because the Syndonese would retaliate.”
“Captain Darmczek,” Charlie said. “Please.”
With visible effort Darmczek swallowed his anger and adopted a calm he clearly didn’t feel. He stepped back from the cell.
Charlie said, “You four men collaborated with the Syndonese. You know it, we know it, all the men knew it then, and know it still. The rest of us on the chain grew absolutely skeletal, while the four of you thinned out a bit, but miraculously stayed rather healthy. I’ll bet they even treated you against infection and some of the other things we suffered. I could probably prove it in a proper military court, though I admit the evidence would be circumstantial. But I don’t have to prove it to get you punished. I can just release you, let you go back to your bunks among your comrades . . .” All four of them cringed noticeably.
Turnman said, “Please, Commander. Don’t.”
Andrews spoke up. “He won’t. But the rest of us would. We’d like you tried and executed. And you’ve got Commander Cass to thank for your lives.”
That wasn’t exactly true. Charlie had wanted them dead as well, had wanted to come down here and personally put a bullet in each of them. But Cesare had talked him out of it. “Those men don’t matter anymore, Charlie,” he’d said. “But if you kill them, even though they deserve it, you won’t be able to put them behind you. I know you, and coldblooded murder, that’s not you. Their blood on your hands will haunt you for the rest of your life. It’s your decision, but think it through carefully.”
Darmczek growled at Charlie, “And I still don’t understand why.”
Charlie didn’t look at Darmczek as he answered him. “They were on the chain with the rest of us. I guess I can understand the need to survive, and the temptation to sacrifice your honor.
“But I can’t understand betraying your comrades,” he said firmly. Charlie looked at the four men carefully. “As such, you’re being held here in protective custody. You will not be mistreated, and you’ll continue to be held until we reach Traxis. At that time we’ll issue you your back-pay, and transport you to a place of your choice, as long as it’s outside any de Maris holding. And be warned: should you ever return, you’ll be arrested, tried, and executed.”
As Charlie turned to leave, Turnman called out to him, “Commander.”
Charlie stopped, half turned and looked over his shoulder at the man. Turnman said, “For what it’s worth, Commander, I’m sorry . . . and thanks.”
The man seemed sincere, but Charlie couldn’t find any kind words for him, so he turned and left.
CHAPTER 2
MEMORIES
Charlie back-stepped as the knife hissed past his nose. He spun, caught Ell with a vicious kick to the side of her thigh, but in that instant her knife cut a furrow across his ribs and an agony of fire lanced up his side. They separated, circling warily, she limping on the damaged leg, he clutching at the deep cut in his side, simblood soaking his sparring suit. He too limped badly.
“Come on, Ell,” Add shouted. “Finish him. You’re getting sloppy. He shouldn’t have lasted this long.”
He tried to ignore the pain, tried to remember that he wasn’t actually hurt. The fabric of the sparring suit was soft and flexible, but with power reinforcing its fibers it could sense the moment of impact, turn into a rigid shield in the immediate neighborhood of the blow and protect its wearer. However, as Add and Ell were wont to remind him, he’d learn nothing about fighting if he didn’t feel the pain of his mistakes. So the suit fed false sensory signals to the pain centers of his brain, telling him he’d badly sprained his left ankle, he’d been cut painfully across his ribs, he was bleeding and he was weakening. The simblood was an illusion fed directly into the cerebral