Engineman - Eric Brown [108]
The flat tarmac of a military airbase extended for kilometres. A line of palm trees marked the perimeter. Beyond, low foothills undulated on the horizon. Ella guessed they were the beginnings of the Torreón mountain range, and that she was being held at the Marquez airbase, about a hundred kilometres south of Zambique City.
The base was intermittently busy, transport helicopters taking off and landing every five minutes. Other military vehicles, jeeps and fliers, raced across the tarmac. The only militia she could see were a few hundred metres away, going in and coming out of the control tower and an adjoining building. They wore the same jungle-green uniforms as the bastards who had attacked her at the Falls.
She understood, then, the reason for the odd sensation of euphoria which surged through her still. She recalled her father's message, her painting in his study. Hard though it was to conceive exactly why - because he had found out that the Organisation was responsible for the genocide of the Lho, perhaps? - it did appear that he had converted. "I have seen the light, Ella. I need to see you." He needed to confess, seek forgiveness, share in the joy and certainty of conversion?
Ella rejoiced in the knowledge that he had seen the light, had changed - and regretted only the possibility that she might never share that joy with him.
For the next hour she remained crouched beneath the window, every sound from outside setting her nerves jumping. At one point a platoon of militia quick-marched past, and Ella retched involuntarily. She laid her head back against the wall, regaining the even tempo of her breathing. She wondered if this was a ploy on the part of the Organisation, leaving her alone in a limbo of uncertainty, softening her up for the inevitable interrogation?
She looked down at the leg-iron. It was a measure of her fatalism that she had not considered trying to escape. She bent her leg and gripped the thick iron collar of the manacle. It was loose about her ankle, but her heel stopped it from moving any further. She spat on her fingers, massaged the saliva into her heel, and pushed on the manacle. She gave up when blood trickled from the resulting abrasion.
I believe, she told herself. I believe that life awaits me after this life, so why am I so afraid?
Fear is natural, she reminded herself. A simple survival mechanism. A trick biology plays to perpetuate the flesh.
But what awaits me transcends the flesh...
It was - she laughed through her tears - little help.
Ten minutes later the hangar door opened and three figures stepped through. Two guards escorted a tall man in the dark green uniform of a Danzig officer, the three stripes of a sergeant on his cuff. The guards halted some way off, and the sergeant approached. He halted and stared down at her with ill-disguised contempt.
He was dark-complexioned, hatchet faced - good looking and at the same time brutish. A company man, if ever she'd seen one.
He held out his hand, palm up, and bent his fingers minimally in a horrible, patronising little gesture. "Stand."
Taking her time, Ella pushed herself to her feet. The sergeant was expressionless, staring at her.
"My name, Hunter, is Sergeant Forster," he said. His accent was tight and clipped. "My speciality is the game of interrogation, a game that over the years I have come to play very well. In fact, I never lose." He paused, letting his words sink in.
Ella fought not to let him see her fear.
"But it is a game," he went on, "in which even the loser can win something - or lose everything, depending on how well you understand the rules." Another pause. He was practised in the art of psychological intimidation, of planting pauses and silences to increase the tension.
"The rules are these, Hunter. I ask you a question, and you answer it. If the answer is what I want to hear, then it is correct and you gain a point. A certain number of points, and your life is