Chapter 6
I woke in a small gray room, tied to a chair. A dignified man with silver hair was leaning over me. Whorehouse Rat sat on the floor behind him, the light catching the gleam of tattooed tears. The man with the silver hair asked how I’d managed to kill Arish.
I looked into his gray eyes and my whole soul desired to answer him, but I couldn’t think straight, could hardly remember my own name. I wanted to go back to sleep, but the man said I couldn’t sleep until I told him everything, and this seemed eminently reasonable.
So, as best I could, I related how Arish had strangled Flaco and tried to kill me, and how I’d shot Arish and used his eye to trick the shuttle into bringing me to the space station. I could only remember the story in parts, brief unrelated flashes. I told him about Tamara and Jafari and the AIs. He made me repeat several parts of the story over and over, and each time his request seemed very reasonable and I wished to answer perfectly. When I fell asleep, he’d jab my ribs to waken me. He grilled me about Jafari and asked me to name the AIs. But I didn’t know the names of the AIs who’d aided the socialists. He seemed very curious about Tamara, and began asking about her dreams, and when I told him how I’d wakened from the final dream unable to think, he became excited and his eyes gleamed. “Did you hear that! Did you hear that! I told you someone with her talent existed!” he said. I wanted to ask what he meant by “her talent,” but I could not think straight. He looked at Whorehouse Rat and said threateningly, “Keep this quiet! Whatever you hear, keep it quiet!”
Whorehouse Rat nodded and smiled at me and said, “Of course, General.”
The general said, “Tell me about the dream again, the darkness washing over you. What did it feel like? What do you remember after that?”
I repeated Tamara’s last dream over and over again as I begged him to let me sleep. My head hurt from trying to remember. The darkness coming out of her mouth, the cold numbness, and myself crying at a sense of loss was all I could recall. I could remember nothing concrete after the darkness hit me, but the general kept trying to draw out something more.
He yelled, “Her job in Intelligence. Did she say what it was? Did she give you any hint?”
“No.”
“Think harder!” he said, grabbing my hand. “Any hint at all? This is crucial!”
I shook my head and realized I thought I’d known something about Tamara, that she’d seemed all-important to me. I’d been willing to give my life for her, but suddenly I was confronted by the knowledge that she was still a stranger.
“Did she live?” the General asked. “Where did you see her last?”
And then I remembered I’d brought her with me. I was afraid I’d been asleep for days, that Tamara had suffocated. “I put her in a trunk. She’s in a coma. It’s a brown trunk made of teak, with elephants carved on it. I left it at the station!”
Someone who’d been standing behind me left the room, and Whorehouse Rat followed. As the door opened, I smelled oily smoke. A moment later a medic and the Rat dragged in the teak chest and flipped it open. Tamara was breathing easily, staring at the ceiling, zombie-eyed.
The General bent over the chest and examined her, caressed her arm with one finger. “Thank God,” he said. He turned to the medic and said, “Keep this socialist whore alive!”
The Whorehouse Rat pulled out a cigar and lit it, inhaling deeply. He looked as if he’d just conquered a country. He said, “You know, I think that a man like me, a man who captured a whole space station with only a handful of men, pitting a mere twenty soldiers against hundreds, could be very valuable to you. No? A man with my talents would make a fine captain!”
The general glared at him, and spoke menacingly. “Idiot! How dare you? You want a promotion for murdering unarmed civilians?”
The Rat’s eyes smoldered. He exhaled his cigar smoke evenly. “I am not an idiot. I saved a valuable man from slaughter at the hands of the socialists, and I brought you an important prisoner. I took over Sol Station with very little bloodshed, and when you think upon it, I’m sure you will realize the rashness of your decision. Think about it. We have two years on ship before we reach Baker—plenty of time for you to show me your gratitude. We will be going to Baker with you—my men, Señor Osic, and the socialist whore—am I not right? It would not be wise to leave even one of us behind, knowing what we know.”
The General frowned, appearing to weigh the consequences. He reached down to Tamara and ran his finger along her jaw line, caressing her. “For this, I thank you, Mavro. We can manage to bring you, I think,” he said heavily. “Baker citizenship, and no extradition.”
I started to nod off. My eyes were closing, and I no longer wanted to keep them open. I made a snoring sound and startled myself awake.
The General turned to me and said, “Thank you, Don Angelo. You have done well today. Very well. You may go to sleep, now. You’re safe. You are going to Baker, with your friends.”
And though I was troubled because I suddenly remembered that one of Jafari’s men was still on board and I didn’t know his identity, I was too tired to speak, so I closed my eyes and slept.
***