Dillon thought the jail was the most cave-like portion of the entire militia enclosure. It was connected to the main headquarters building by a windowless rock corridor that extended between the rear hydroponics sheds. The barred enclosures filled a long, high-ceilinged room. Half of the cells were empty, which Dillon thought was curious, since so many prisoners had been brought through. He asked where the prisoners had been taken, but his guard replied that his question was not proper.
Dillon was beginning to spot the local transiters, or ghost-walkers, for they all shared the taut builds and hardfisted expressions of early poverty. As they passed through the jail, he saw how the caged prisoners shrank away at their approach, clearly terrified of being forced to walk the ghostly ways another time.
They had shifted the captive from the cages to a room that probably had belonged to a senior prison guard. It was windowless and whitewashed and became cramped when they all piled in—Dillon, Logan, Vance, Sidra, Nicolette, and the two soldiers who had been interrogating the prisoners before they were sent wherever.
The inmate looked like a nervous bank clerk, all except his hands, which were far too large for his scrawny frame. Dillon put his age at late forties in Earth years, and his weight at 120 soaking wet. Which this guy was definitely working toward, the way he was sweating. He was mostly bald, with two raccoon stripes of rat-brown hair running above each temple. He looked underfed and eager. Clearly the guy thought that this gathering meant he was one step closer to some kind of reward.
He wiped his nose every few words, like he had a nervous tic. His eyes burned like coals and were never still. Neither were his hands, big mallets that jerked and fluttered, like they fought against being attached to his gaunt arms.
Logan asked his questioners, “Does he speak our tongue?”
“Not a word, sir. Least, that’s what he claims.”
“Vance.”
The gallant officer stepped forward and addressed him calmly. The guy’s response was guttural and gunshot swift. Vance spoke again. The man barked in reply.
Vance turned to Logan and said, “He insists on seeing gold before he says anything else.”
Nicolette said, “He had a blade hidden somewhere and tried to knife two of my crew when we brought him in. Let them have a few minutes alone and we’ll see how fast he sings.”
Logan shook his head. “We want the truth, not some carpet woven from Havoc lies.” He turned to the interrogators and said, “Give me everything he’s said so far. Word for word. Start from the beginning.”
The woman who served as spokesperson for the pair was squat and had a pockmarked face. “We’ve been bringing them for the quick interrogations, one by one just like you ordered. Some are scared enough of the ghost-walk to tell us the little they know. Havoc is definitely planning a big push into Hawk territory. Duke Tiko is after claiming the Hawk province as his own.”
“What we suspected,” Nicolette said.
“Anything else?” Logan asked.
“Not until we started on this one. Soon as the door was shut and his mates couldn’t hear, he claimed Havoc’s been working on a new weapon. Something from long ago. Said Duke Tiko had a force training in secret. Just waiting for the right moment.” She shrugged. “Then he demanded gold.”
Logan turned to Vance. “If it’s so secret, how does he even know it exists? Ask him that.”
Vance used the same affable tone, and the guy responded with the same nervous snarl. “He claims to have been one of the early recruits to test the weapon. And that’s all he’ll say until the gold is in his hands.”
“Tell the prisoner we will resume when payment is at hand.” Logan said to the two guards, “You did well. This prisoner is to stay under constant watch.”
“Aye, sir.”
Logan waited until the prisoner had been led away, then said to Dillon, “I could go to my contacts here and ask for their gold. We’ve done enough to justify their help, clearing most of the Havoc troops from the market. But my uncle is a cautious man. He will want to negotiate. It could require hours. Days. Plus, going to him means using up the debt they now owe me.”
Dillon liked Logan’s up-front manner. “I can get the gold here pronto.”
But Logan wasn’t done. “If I agree and let you return to your home planet . . .”
“Not my home,” Dillon replied. “Serena. The capital of the Human Assembly.”
“How do I know you won’t return with a hundred of your Praetorians? I don’t want your gold that much.”
“I read you loud and clear,” Dillon replied. “And I guess it all comes down to trust. But I have one thing I’d like to try that might just make my travel unnecessary.”