Redliners(100)

"Let's go back to the column, Spook," Blohm said. He gestured the captive forward with a crook of his finger. "You know the way. You just came from there. The major's going to want to talk with you."

They started down the corridor between log and thicket, the prisoner preceding. Behind them the remaining Kalendru hooted desperately. The brambles were easing closer.

Blohm didn't look around.



Abbado's squad had joined Blohm in the jungle, but they took their positions with most of C41 on the perimeter and let the scout bring his prisoner the last of the way to Farrell by himself. At least half the civilians waited to see what was going to happen, though only a few dozen at the front of the crowd would have anything to watch but the backs of their fellows.

An electronic interrogation was about as boring as waiting for paint to dry anyway. Unless the interrogator screwed up, got too deep, and went psychotic, of course. Art Farrell hoped he was too experienced and too careful to let that happen.

"That was a slick a piece of work, Blohm," Farrell said. The interrogation gear was laid out and waiting. He gestured to it and said, "You want to control on the spare set? You've earned it."

Blohm looked more like a corpse than a man; except for his eyes. He shook his head minusculy. "I'll check in with Mirica," he said. "But I did my job first."

"Right," Farrell said. He figured Blohm had to know the score about the kid already. If the scout wanted to hope for a miracle, well, didn't they all? "Kristal, you take—"

"Major Farrell?" said Tamara Lundie. "It might be more efficient if I carried out the interrogation. My equipment includes expert systems for the purpose."

Farrell wondered if he ever in his life had been so earnest. He didn't actually see Manager al-Ibrahimi smile, but he had a feeling God was having similar thoughts.

"Thank you, Administrator," Farrell said, preserving the public formality, "but however expert your systems are, they're not soldiers. I'll handle this one myself."

Kristal and Nessman had laid the prisoner flat on the sheet and taped his ankles. Occasionally the interrogation subject flailed around. The slab of sticky wood pinioned the Kalender's arms so well that they left it. Farrell wasn't sure that the glue could be removed without killing the subject anyway.

"With your permission, Major," al-Ibrahimi said. "I could be of service on the control panel. Not to direct the interrogation, of course; but to support you."

God might not be any smarter than his blonde aide, but he sure as hell wasn't naive. "Yeah, all right," Farrell said. "Let's do it."

He seated himself beside the quiescent prisoner and fitted the leads from the control box into the socket in his helmet. Kristal had already attached the induction pads to the Kalender's bare scalp. Al-Ibrahimi plugged another set of induction leads into the panel's second output jack and placed the pads at the base of his own skull. Farrell had expected the manager to hook the box to his headset or just to use the control panel's holographic projection.

Farrell closed his eyes and focused on a bead glowing against an azure field; it was the way he always prepared for an interrogation. "Go," he said. Al-Ibrahimi rolled him into the prisoner's mind.

Interrogation by any method is an art. As with all arts, the successful artist has to both know what he wants and be ready to exploit unexpected opportunities.

Some interrogators liked to drug themselves for closer rapport with the subject. That technique provided clearer images, but it increased the danger that the subject's attitudes and perceptions would bleed into the interrogator's unconscious and affect his judgment when he evaluated the data. Even without the risk, Art Farrell wasn't about to be another person for the sake of detail he didn't need.

Farrell started with the landing. His will guided the AI in the control box as it furrowed the Kalender's memory the way a plow does a field. The dirt is in no way changed or damaged, but its alignment shifts in accordance with the plowman's desires.

Images appeared in Farrell's mind, flashes of memory:

The Kalendru had made a normal landing, and they'd been fully prepared for trouble. The prisoner had been an officer with the party of eighty troops who set up perimeter defenses while the main body unloaded aircars. There were three or four hundred Spooks all told; the precise number was deeper in the subject's memory and of no immediate concern to Farrell.

They'd had casualties immediately. The troops hadn't worn body armor even at the beginning. Injuries were more frequent and more serious than those the strikers received from similar dangers. Though the shooting trees were only waist high—they'd sprouted after the asteroid hit to form the landing site—their inch-long spikes punctured limbs and body cavities, killing and maiming.