But coming out of the sun was a nice poetic touch.
We had launched our own missiles before our particle beams touched the ships’ missiles, detonating all of them before they could smash into the Tubingen. Our missiles jammed themselves into the hulls of the enemy ships, targeted to disrupt power systems and weapons. We didn’t worry about the crews. We knew there wouldn’t be any, except for a single pilot.
From our point of view the battle was over before it began. The enemy ships, only lightly armored, went up like fireworks. We hailed the Tubingen by standard coms and by BrainPal networking, to assess the damage.
It was significant. The ship was a loss; it would barely have time to evacuate its crew before its life-support systems collapsed. We started making room on the Chandler and sent skip drones back to Phoenix Station for rescue ships and crews.
Reports trickled in from the surface of Khartoum. The platoon from the Tubingen, tasked to bring the planet’s prime minister into custody, had been shot out of the sky from ground-based defenses. The soldiers who had leapt from the shuttle to escape its destruction had been picked off by the same defense.
Only two soldiers had escaped unharmed, but between them they destroyed the defense installation, staffed with Rraey soldiers aligned with Equilibrium, the group who had wreaked so much havoc on the Colonial Union and the Conclave. They captured two of the Rraey from the ground installation, including the commander. Then they finished their original mission and brought back the prime minister of Khartoum.
Someone was going to have to interrogate them all.
For the two Rraey, that someone was me.
* * *
I entered the room where the Rraey prisoner of war had been waiting for me. The Rraey had not been shackled but a shock collar had been placed around his neck. Any motion quicker than a very casual and deliberate movement would generate a jolt, and the faster the movement, the more powerful the jolt.
The Rraey did not move very much.
He sat in a chair very badly designed for his physiology, but no better chair was to be had. It was positioned at a table. On the opposite side of the table stood another chair. I sat in the chair, reached out, and placed a speaker on the table.
“Commander Tvann,” I said, and my words were translated by the speaker. “My name is Harry Wilson. I am a lieutenant in the Colonial Defense Forces. I would like to speak to you, if you don’t mind. You may answer in your own language. My BrainPal will translate for me.”
“You humans,” Tvann said, after a moment. “The way you speak. As if you are asking for permission when you are making demands.”
“You could choose not to speak to me,” I said.
Tvann motioned to the collar around his neck. “I do not think that would go very well for me.”
“A fair point.” I pushed up from the chair and walked over to Tvann, who did not flinch. “If you will permit me, I will remove your collar.”
“Why would you do that?”
“As a token of good faith,” I said. “And also, so if you choose not to speak to me, you will not have to fear punishment.”
Tvann craned his neck to allow me access to his collar. I removed it, unlocking it via a command from his BrainPal. I set the collar on the table and then returned to my seat.
“Now, where were we?” I said. “That’s right. I wanted to speak to you.”
“Lieutenant…” Tvann trailed off.
“Wilson.”
“Thank you. Lieutenant, I—may I be candid with you?”
“I hope you will.”
“While I do not wish to suggest I do not appreciate you removing this instrument of torture from my neck, allow me to note that the act is hollow. And not only hollow, it is, in fact, disingenuous.”
“How so, Commander?”
Tvann motioned around him. “You have removed the shock collar. But I am still here, in your ship. I have no doubt that on the other side of this door is another CDF solider, like yourself, with a weapon or another implement of torture. There is no escape for me and no assurance that aside from this immediate moment, I will not be punished or even killed for not speaking with you.”
I smiled. “You are correct that there is someone on the other side of this door, Commander. It’s not another CDF soldier, however. It’s just my friend Hart Schmidt, who is a diplomat, not a killer or a torturer. He’s on the other side of the door primarily because he’s running a recording device—an unnecessary thing, as I am also recording this conversation with my BrainPal.”
“You’re not worried about me trying to kill you and escaping,” Tvann said.
“Not really, no,” I said. “I mean, I am a CDF soldier. You may know from your own experience that we are genetically engineered to be faster and stronger than unmodified humans. With all due respect to your own prowess, Commander, if you attempted to kill me you would be in for a fight.”
“And if I did kill you?”