“No more evasion,” Hawthorne said. “Begin talking, or my men will beat you to death with their fists.”
Bent over, with the bionic man squeezing his flesh, Yezhov craned his neck and looked up at Hawthorne.
James Hawthorne forced himself to look down steely-eyed at the PHC Chief.
Yezhov shut his eyes, and he whispered, “I signaled them to begin Operation Inversion.”
Hawthorne motioned the bodyguard as he told Yezhov, “Explain.”
Yezhov cried out in relief, stumbling away from the bodyguard. He rubbed his shoulder, and bumped against one of the technicians’ chairs. With a groan, Yezhov sagged onto it. He looked up at Hawthorne. Rat-like, survivor’s cunning was visible on his face.
“Why should I speak?” Yezhov asked in a cracked voice. “You’ll have me shot anyway.”
In that moment, Hawthorne decided to maintain one facet of his old life. He would do what was necessary to hold power so he could save humanity. But he would keep one part of himself pure.
“You have my word of honor, Chief, that I will not shoot you.”
“How can I trust your word?”
Hawthorne forced himself to stare at Yezhov, to stare at the monster who planted bombs in pretty women’s brains. Then he sent those women into enemy territory, to seduce Highborn and blow both her and her lover to death. What other horrors had this monster committed? He must never become like Yezhov. He must never sink into depravity. Maybe the only dike against that would be to keep his word.
“My solemn word is all I have left,” Hawthorne said.
While crouched in his chair, Yezhov sneered.
Hawthorne almost drew his gun and fired. To have this worm doubt him….
“Your days of power are over,” Hawthorne said, and he was surprised at his calmness. “But I want your expertise. You shall become one of my advisors. You will receive a double ration of food and full privileges. But you will be in confinement in my headquarters. I want to know everything you’ve been doing, Chief. You must hold nothing back.”
Yezhov gingerly massaged his shoulder. “The Directors won’t stand for your highhandedness.”
“My reading of history indicates otherwise. If those with the guns are willing to use them ruthlessly, then a small group can with terror effectively control nations.”
“You’ll use PHC methods?” asked Yezhov.
“We’re on the brink of the abyss. Will humanity hold together through good will? I doubt it. We need fierce ruthlessness now.”
“Your way has failed us,” Yezhov said.
Speaking with this filth was wearying, but Hawthorne clamped down on his revulsion. He needed the Chief’s knowledge. If he would practice ruthlessness, he would also practice it against himself.
“We’re still holding territory,” Hawthorne said, “and that’s due to my way, my control of the military.”
“Your years at the helm have changed you,” Yezhov said. “Or don’t you recognize that in yourself? Each year, you’ve become increasingly dictatorial.”
It was probably true. Wars brutalized soldiers, people and the commanders. Long wars only intensified the process. Even so, Hawthorne doubted he could keep listening to Yezhov. The desire to kill the monster was nearly overwhelming now.
“Each year, I become increasingly desperate,” Hawthorne said. “You now have five seconds to answer me.”
Yezhov glanced right and left, and stared at the dead technicians. Three seconds passed as his gaze froze on them. Then sweat bathed his face. He jerked upward. Maybe he realized he’d been immobile. Maybe he didn’t know for how long he’d stared.
“I’ll talk!” he screamed. “I’ll tell you everything.”
Hawthorne found that his heart was beating with heavy thumps. In a thick voice, he said, “That’s too bad, Chief. I wanted to kill you.” He took a deep breath, tried to make it a calming one. His heart kept thumping, and he didn’t know why. “My word is my word. Now start talking.”
“Where should I begin?” Yezhov asked.
Hawthorne took a second deep breath, and finally his heart-rate began to return to normal. That was a good question. Then he knew the answer.
“What do you think will make me the angriest? Start there.”
-11-
Hawthorne paced before a one-way mirror. In the other room was an operating chamber. Former Chief Yezhov lay strapped down on a gurney, with a metal band around his shaved head.
Three doctors stood in green gowns around him, with surgical masks covering their faces. Medical equipment filled with room, with banks of computers, imagining holographs and mind-scanners.
Yezhov squirmed as a doctor inserted a tube into his left arm. Turning toward the one-way mirror, Yezhov shouted, “You’re breaking your word, Supreme Commander!”
Captain Mune stood to the side. He glanced at Hawthorne. “The man’s a liar, sir. He’s been lying for months.”
It had been five-and-half weeks since the raid on PHC Headquarters. Since then, Hawthorne’s most trusted soldiers had arrested the top echelon of Political Harmony Corps and sixty percent of the under-chiefs and ranking secretaries. Eleven of those secretive men and women had been shot. Twenty-three more faced Director-controlled Tribunals. Unfortunately, three Directors were discovered attempting to initiate a coup. They’d used a hidden fraternity of PHC personnel, together with altered people in various security services.
“You gave me your word!” Yezhov shouted.
Hawthorne bared his teeth in a grimace. The altered people—they had been proto-cyborgs, with the same brainwave patterns that Commodore Blackstone had transmitted from the Mars Battlefleet. The cyborgs had altered certain fleet personnel there during the Battle for Mars.
“You’ve kept your word, sir,” Mune said.
Hawthorne shook his head. The captain had left his wheelchair nine days ago. He still moved gingerly, but he said he felt as fit as ever.
“Supreme Commander!” Yezhov howled. “Let me out of here!”
The three doctors looked up, turning toward the one-way mirror. It was made of ballistic glass.
“Tell them to proceed,” Hawthorne whispered.
Mune pressed a button and said just that.
“No!” Yezhov shouted, trying to squirm free.
The three doctors returned their attention to him. One pressed a hypo against his arm. Soon, Yezhov’s struggles slowed and then ceased altogether.
The hospital room was part of Political Harmony Corps, this one in the former headquarters. In this very chamber, the three doctors working on Yezhov had operated on the women sent into enemy territory.
“You never could have trusted him,” Mune said.
Hawthorne knew that to be true. These past weeks, Yezhov had proved himself a masterful liar. If the art of deception were one of the martial practices, Yezhov would be a ninth-degree black belt.
“You
“The scanning burns out the brain,” Hawthorne whispered.
“He brought this on himself, sir. Your word implied that he would cooperate.”
Hawthorne squinted at Yezhov. These past five-and-half weeks had been murder on his conscience. His bionic teams had turned into death squads. He was becoming no better than Stalin or Mao of the Twentieth Century. Soon, he’d be no different from Lord Director Enkov. Social Unity was disintegrating under the crushing pressure of the Highborn conquest. In his gut, Hawthorne knew he had to do these things. But he wasn’t the right man for it.
