2952-11-20 – Tales from the Service: The Man from Prospero 

As you may recall from my conversation with Kirsten Reid, recent intelligence harvesting has given Confederated forces a good idea what life is like on at least one of the Incarnation home worlds, Prospero. Theoretically, this is the closest Incarnation world to the front lines, and thus, when its location is discovered, a likely candidate for invasion. This is hardly a surprise to anyone, especially not to Incarnation planners. 

Among the many thousands of enemy personnel who have fallen into Navy hands during this conflict, some have been excellent intelligence sources, but most have given Naval Intelligence nothing of use, either because they could not be persuaded to talk, or because they had nothing of military value to say. 

Lieutenant Reid forwarded me an account sent to her by one of her associates in Naval Intelligence a few days ago. Why he didn’t send it directly, I can’t imagine; perhaps he thought that she would have more influence to get it published on our text feed. For the record, I would have published this account no matter who sent it in, because it represents a rare glimpse into how Incarnation prisoners are being housed here in the Sagittarius Gate system. 

Lieutenant Sebastian Hayes frowned down at his data slate as he walked down the broad master corridor running the length of the habitation module, glancing up only occasionally to examine the numbers on the doors. He usually tried to avoid trips to Facility 41, but orders were orders. 

He stopped at door 59, checked the list on his slate one more time, then pressed his wristcuff to the panel. With a flash of orange lights and a warning buzz, the heavy blast door began to grind open, swinging into the broad compartment beyond. 

Reflexively, Sebastian stepped back from the doors, his imagination picturing a horde of prisoners-of-war flooding outward toward escape, but few of the dozen or so plain-clothed men lounging in the broad antechamber beyond even looked up as the door opened. On each one’s right temple was a patch of shiny metal and blinking lights. They’d all been shown the layout of the station when they arrived; there was no escape for them in the main corridor; it led only to the central hub guard-station. They couldn’t even get into any of the other prisoner compartments without an access code from the officer on duty. 

Sebastian surveyed the listless faces inside the door for several seconds, then crossed the threshold. This facility didn’t house officers, Immortals, or others with nonstandard implants, so he wasn’t in any particular danger unless they all decided to gang up and pummel him into the deck. He wasn’t armed, of course; the guards wouldn’t risk putting a weapon into the hands of the prisoners. 

The blue pinstripes on Sebastian’s uniform told the residents of this compartment who he was, of course. In their months or even years of confinement, they’d all seen Naval Intelligence analysts enough times to recognize the uniform.  

On both of the long sides of the antechamber were open doors leading into the bunkrooms, which could not be closed during daytime hours. At the far end of the space were two more doors – one leading toward the communal mess hall, and the other toward the sanitary facility. 

Sebastian looked down at his slate, then looked back up. “Yarov Shakil?” He called out. Hopefully, the Incarnation pronunciation of this name was similar to how a Vorkutan would say it.  

Nobody looked up; the trio engaged in a huddled conversation nearby continued their whispering conference as if they had not heard, and most of the rest went back to playing cards or reading the paper books they had been issued by the prison staff. Sebastian frowned and took a few more steps into the compartment as the door behind him slid closed. Just because the prisoners recognized his uniform, didn’t mean they were predisposed to helping him. Most of the ordinary spacers and soldiers interned on Station 41 tried to avoid dealing with anyone wearing blue pinstripes, and he could hardly blame them. 

Fortunately, the dossier on Sergeant Shakil contained a file photo taken at the time he was processed into custody. He was old for an infantryman – he'd given his age at forty-three standard years – but he was fit for his age, thin and wiry, with a tan and much-lined face. None of the people out in the open resembled Shakil. Threading his way around the prisoners, he peeked into each of the open barracks chambers one by one. His man wasn’t in any of them. 

That left the sanitary annex or the mess hall, and Sebastian far preferred to do an interview in a mess hall, so he went there first. If Shakil was using the head, Sebastian’s questions could certainly wait. 

He spotted his man sitting at one of the long mess tables, hunched over a cup of food-fab coffee and a book. Squaring his shoulders, Sebastian marched up to the opposite side of the table. “Yarov Shakil, isn’t it?” 

“Would you be here if it wasn’t?” The man didn’t look up. 

Sebastian looked around, then sat down at the table. He didn’t particularly care whether anyone else heard, but since it was between meal times the mess hall was nearly empty. “I’ll be as quick as I can, Mr. Shakil.” 

“Eh.” The thin man shrugged, still not looking up from his book. 

Sebastian switched his slate to note-taking mode and took a breath. “You grew up on Prospero. I want to know about it.” 

The man shook his head. “Never heard of it.” 

“Really.” Sebastian arched one eyebrow. “Then why do we have record of so much message traffic between you and people on that world?” 

Shakil finally looked up, his eyes narrowed. “How did you-” 

“Not the point.” Sebastian tapped his slate. “I just want to know a few things about Prospero. You spend ten minutes answering my questions, and you can be the barracks hero this week.” 

Shakil slowly closed his book and sat back. “War’s going that bad, is it?” 

Sebastian smiled. “It’s going pretty well, I think.” 

The Incarnation sergeant rolled his eyes. “How would I be the hero?” 

“I talked to the guards.” Sebastian swiped across his slate screen to bring up the image he’d saved on his way over. “Prison regulations permit up to two cats, small dogs, or other domesticated animals per barracks compartment, as long as the prisoners take care of them.” 

Shakil’s eyes darted from side to side, then fell on the image of two adorable gray kittens for sale in a pet-shop over on the Sprawl. Surely, a man who’d grown up in a small agricultural settlement on a world like Prospero would miss the presence of animals that he’d known in his youth. 

A wistful smile crept across Shakil’s much-lined face, only to be smothered in an instant “Make it dogs.” He looked up from the screen, but his voice was still low. “I grew up there, but I don’t know anything secret.”