Chapter 64: Trials
The screen faded back into the cell wall in front of Jack.
Again.
He rolled his eyes. “Some trial, huh?”
He and Otto had been asked to speak in their own defense. That was the law. They did it from their cells because letting them walk to the trial, under guard and under Limiters, was “too dangerous to Federal security.”
And every time Jack tried to explain why he'd ended up fighting with the Oligarchical rebellion, the screen turned off.
Couldn't have him sharing classified information with the jurors, now could they? Couldn't have him mention how an Animus Hunter went after a harmless civilian girl, claimed she was deadly dangerous, and tried to haul her in on powers charges or worse without a shred of evidence she'd done a damn thing? Or how a Fed admiral, sniffing after that same girl, had threatened the Algreil arcology on Wellach before showing any kind of legal authority to do so?
Yeah. Some trial.
Jack didn't think he'd been allowed to string two sentences together yet.
Otto, on the other hand, had been the perfect witness. Jack didn't know if the oligarch was so far gone he honestly thought his lawyers could get him off or if he just didn't have it in him to care.
Jack did know it annoyed the hell out of him.
He probably wasn't being fair. The Feds were the ones railroading them through, Otto to get rid of a legitimate danger, Jack to make sure their Chloe trap was well and truly baited. Which wasn't Otto's fault, except for the part where he started a war, and the part where he lost it, and the part where the losing seemed to have a hell of a lot to do with his being deliberately, chronically cruel to his wife.
Jack glared at him.
Hard to glare at a man who sat there and took it without so much as acknowledging the expression. The oligarch seemed downright meditative. Maybe he planned on starting his own little Theist sect.
If he did, he apparently believed in reincarnation.
The screen flickered back on, revealing the stony-faced Fed judge who'd presided over their trial – such as it was.
“Mr. Algreil, Mr. Hughes,” he said, “your testimony will no longer be required today.”
“Funny you should mention that,” Jack said, “'cause I don't see how we've actually given any.”
He didn't even get to finish before the screen winked out.
Bastard, Jack thought.
As bad as the trial was, he almost preferred it to not having anything to do. Otto got on his nerves at the best of times, and this sure as hell wasn’t. Wondering if Ellie had found a way to reach Chloe, doubly so. Wondering if he'd been wrong about the Feds needing him alive? Oh, yeah. He wondered the hell out of that. He figured the Feds made their holding cells so boring as part of the punishment.
He'd started to pace before he even realized he'd done it.
Angrily, he forced himself to sit on the empty cot.
He wasn't gonna let them get to him. It was probably some kind of psychological leverage.
“It's psycho, is what it is,” he muttered.
Otto, predictably, didn't answer.
Jack glared at him again. This time, he got it to stick. “What the hell are you cooperating with the Feds for, anyway? You gotta know they're gonna fry you, right?”
“Yes.”
“You ever say anything but monosyllables anymore?”
“Yes.”
“Dammit, Otto, you couldn't pass a sentience test, the way you've been acting. You could at least show some pride or defiance or – something.”
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
Otto finally looked at him. “And get cut off every fifteen seconds? You achieve what, exactly?”
“Still got my pride,” Jack said.
“And your brains.”
For a minute, Jack thought the oligarch actually intended to converse. Sarcasm sounded more like the old Otto than anything he'd heard in a month.
Instead, Otto went back to staring at the wall that usually served as their cell's door.
“When you first started acting like this,” Jack said, “I honestly thought you were planning an escape or something.”
No response.
“But you're just gonna sit here and die.”
No response.
“You're not even gonna fight back!”
“Twenty-nine thousand, two hundred and seventy magnetic acceleration cannons rated for anti-capital ship fire,” Otto said in a monotone.
“Huh?”
“Four million Federal Marines with significant mecha elements,” the oligarch continued. “The First Fleet, with eight destroyers, two battlecruisers, two battleships, five fleet carriers and more than a hundred smaller vessels. At least ten thousand Navy mecha between the fleet and the city defense forces.”
It was Jack's turn to sit and stare.
“Fully half of the active Animus Hunter corps, an unknown number of errants and nob traitors, at least forty strong and powerful enough to be trusted with soloing any nob or errant who tries to use his powers in Fed-controlled space.”
Jack swallowed.
“A shield supposed to be so strong even an Imperial couldn't get through,” Otto continued. “And most of the city-world is built from nanomachines that can crush, suffocate or even cut to ribbons as easily as they can seat and transport.”
“Etemenos's defenses,” Jack said.
“That's right, Jack.” Otto finally met his eyes. “We cannot escape. We can't get by any one of those things – hell, we can't get out of our cell, because even if we slipped through the 'door,' the room we got into would just become another cell. This whole city, this whole world, is a prison for anyone the Feds don't like.”
“You're saying we've got no chance against all that stuff,” Jack said.
“Anyone with brain one can see that.”
“Well if we don't find a way to get through it,” Jack said, “there's at least even odds my daughter's gonna try.”
Otto shrugged. “And I would care for what reason? She's no longer any use to me.”
Jack shot to his feet and slugged Otto before either of them realized what he was thinking. His fist actually connected. The oligarch spun to the floor and sprawled there. A line of red pooled on the silvery floor where his face lay.
“You ever say that again,” Jack began.
Then he realized Otto wasn't moving.
“Otto?”
Ah, crap.
Jack knelt beside him and reached out to turn him over.
Otto's fingers caught him in the throat and jabbed him backwards. If the oligarch had been working out like he normally did, the blow would have left Jack coughing and sputtering. Or dead if Otto had wanted him that way. As it was, it sent Jack reeling back against his own cot.
Otto was on him in a second, but he was slow and weak from weeks of sitting inactive. Jack had been pacing, ranting and working out for lack of anything better to do.
They traded four punches. None connected.
Otto got under Jack's guard and grabbed his loose-fitting prison shirt. He yanked him forward into an outstretched palm.
Jack cracked his elbows down on Otto's arm before it hit. Otto folded into a grapple.
Speed didn't matter now, or even the kind of lean muscle Otto normally had. Jack wrapped him up in a crushing bear hug and swung him around into the wall. It gave a little, like soft foam. The prisoners weren't technically supposed to hurt each other.
Otto had planned on that give. Jack hadn't. Off-balance, he started to slip, got his footing for a second, and flipped to the floor when Otto shot his leg into the newly available gap.
They went down side by side, still swinging wildly.
Then the Limiters kicked in.
Jack was so stunned he couldn't see for a second, his nervous system overloaded with a weird mixture of pleasure and nausea. It was a little like being falling-down drunk. He'd heard the original limiters mimicked those effects exactly, but they'd refined the mixture over the years. He groaned and rolled toward the bunk, grabbing his suddenly fuzzy head. He felt like throwing up, but couldn't bring himself to mind.
He glanced over at Otto. The oligarch hadn't even bothered to roll over. He lay there, tongue lolling out, broken nose leaking blood. He glanced over at Jack.
Jack grinned drunkenly. “Feds're gonna be pissed we take the stand like this, huh?”
“Heh. Make it look like they're inte... inta... like they beat the shit out of us.”
“You gonna start manning up now,” Jack asked, “or I gonna haveta smack ya around some more?”
“In your dreams,” Otto slurred. “Kick your ass if it wassint for these Liminers.”
“Sounds like yeah,” Jack said. “We're gonna feel like crap when we wake up, right?”
“Prolly.”
“Never actually hit you before. You're slipping.”
“Got lucky.”
The part of Jack's mind that still functioned figured Otto was right.
But he'd also gotten the oligarch to do something. Otto was still in there. Slower, weaker, and buried deep enough it took a punch to the face to wake him up –
But still there.
Jack wondered what he had up his sleeve.
Until he passed out, anyway.