The Descent

Ike  waited.  Sandwell's  'us'  gave  an  impression  that  he  was  still  active  with  the military.  But  something  about  him  –  not  his  country  laird's  clothes,  but  something  in his manner – suggested  he had other meat on his plate, too.

Ike's  silences  were  starting  to  annoy  Sandwell.  Ike  could  tell,  because  the  next question  was  meant  to  put  him  on  the  spot.  'You  were  piloting  slaves  when  Branch found you. Isn't that correct?  You were  a kapo. A warder.  You were  one of them.'

'Whatever  you  want  to  call  it,'  Ike  said.  It  was  like  slapping  a  rock  to  accuse  him  of his past.

'Your answer matters.  Did you cross over  to the hadals, or didn't you?'

Sandwell was wrong. It  didn't matter  what  Ike  said.  In  his  experience,  people  made their own judgments, regardless  of the truth, even  when the truth  was clear.

'This is why  people can never  trust  you recaptures,'  Sandwell said. 'I've  read  enough psych  evaluations.  You're  like  twilight  animals.  You  live  between  worlds,  between light  and  darkness.  No  right  or  wrong.  Mildly  psychotic  at  best.   Under   ordinary circumstances,  it  would  have  been  folly  for  the  military  to  rely  on  people  like  you  in the field.'

Ike  knew  the  fear  and  contempt.  Precious  few  humans  had  been  repossessed  from hadal  captivity,  and  most  went  straight  into  padded  cells.  A  few  dozen  had  been rehabbed   and  put   to  work,   mostly   as  seeing-eye   dogs  for  miners   and   religious colonies.

'I  don't  like  you,  is  my  point,'  Sandwell  continued.  'But  I  don't  believe  you  went AWOL eighteen months ago. I  read  Branch's  report  of  the  siege  at  Albuquerque  10.  I believe  you  went  behind  enemy  lines.  But  it  wasn't  some  grand  act,  to  save  your comrades  in  the  camp.  It  was  to  kill  the  ones  that  did  this  to  you.'  Sandwell  gestured at the markings and scars on Ike's  face and hands. 'Hate makes sense to me.'

Since  Sandwell  appeared   so  satisfied,   Ike   did   not   contradict   him.   It   was   the automatic  assumption  that  he  led  soldiers  against  his  former  captor  for  the  revenge. Ike  had  quit  trying  to  explain  that  to  him  the  Army  was  a  captor,  too.  Hate  didn't enter  the  equation  at  all.  It  couldn't,  or  he  would  have  destroyed  himself  long  ago. Curiosity, that was his fire.

Unawares, Ike  had edged from the creep of sunbeams. He saw Sandwell looking.  Ike caught himself, stopped.

'You don't belong up here.' Sandwell smiled. 'I think you know that.'

This guy  was a regular Welcome Wagon. 'I'll leave  the minute they  let  me.  I  came  to clear my  name. Then it's back to work.'

'You  sound  like  Branch.  But  it's  not  that  simple,  Ike.  This  is  a  hanging  court.  The hadal threat  is over.  They're  gone.'

'Don't be so sure.'

'Everything  is  perception.  People  want  the  dragon  to  be  slain.  What  that  means  is we don't have  any more need for the misfits and rebels. We don't need the trouble and embarrassment  and  worry.  You  scare  us.  You  look  like  them.  We  don't  want  the reminder. A year  or two  ago,  the  court  would  have  considered  your  talents  and  value in the field. These  days  they  want a tight ship. Discipline. Order.'

Sandwell  kept  the  fascism  casual.  'In  short,  you're  dead.  Don't  take  it  personally. Yours  isn't the  only  court-martial.  The  armies  are  about  to  purge  the  ranks  of  all  the rawness  and  unpleasantry.  You  repos  are  finished.  The  scouts  and  guerrillas  go.  It

happens at the end of every  war. Spring cleaning.'

Dixie  cups.  Branch's  words  echoed.  He  must  have  known  about,  or  sensed,  this coming purge. These  were  simple truths.  But Ike  was  not  ready  to  hear  them.  He  felt hurt, and it was a revelation that he could feel anything at all.

'Branch  talked  you  into  throwing  yourself  on  the  mercy  of  the  court,'  Sandwell stated.

'What else did he tell you?' Ike  felt as weightless as a dead leaf.

'Branch?  We  haven't  spoken  since  Bosnia.  I  arranged  this  little  discussion  through one of my  aides. Branch thinks you're meeting an attorney  who's a friend of a friend. A fixer.'

Why the  duplicity? Ike  wondered.

'It takes  no great  stretch  of the imagination,' Sandwell went on. 'Why  else  would  you put  yourself  through  this,  if  not  for  mercy?  As  I've  said,  it's  beyond  that.  They've already  decided your  case.'

His  tone  –  not  derisive  but  unsentimental  –  told  Ike  there  was  no  hope.  He  didn't waste  time asking the verdict.  He simply asked what the punishment was.

'Twelve  years,'  Sandwell said. 'Brig time. Leavenworth.'