Read Online The Trials (The Red Trilogy Book 2) by Linda Nagata - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Linda Nagata
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need?”
“Fifteen minutes, ma’am.”
“Granted.”
So we file out again, to sit in stony silence around the table in the conference room. When we return, Fong stands again, grim faced. “Your Honor, the government is unable to report on the current status and condition of Thelma Sheridan. We request that we be allowed to proceed with the video deposition, which has been corroborated, and already reviewed by the defense.”
“Granted,” Monteiro says. “Proceed.”
• • • •
Thelma Sheridan hasn’t lost any of her ferocity. Dressed in a gray cotton smock and gray pajama pants, she’s sitting on a steel chair in a concrete room with stained walls and no windows. The room’s light has a yellow cast. Her chin is tucked. She looks up from under her brow line, a fighter, a cornered predator, poised to spring.
“State your name for the record,” a woman’s voice says in crisp, accented English. Sheridan’s lip curls as if this is something to fight over. But she complies. “Thelma Han Sheridan. I am an American citizen, the victim of a kidnapping, and I am being held illegally—”
“I remind you, Ms. Sheridan, this is a video depositionintended to cover the events of November eighteenth to twentieth. Your recorded testimony will supplement an extensive video record, and will be used in court-martial proceedings in the United States.”
“Yes, ma’am. And I would like to attend those court-martial proceedings, in person. As the victim in this crime, it’s my right.”
The interrogator’s voice is not British, but it reflects a British education, with every word crisply pronounced as she states in a matter-of-fact tone, “Ma’am, it is not presently possible for you to attend, as you are engaged in your own separate legal proceeding. But the United States values your testimony. So could you please describe exactly what happened the night of November eighteenth to nineteenth.”
Sheridan’s brows are not so well groomed as they used to be, her hair has lost its shiny, metallic polish, but there is still a staggering sense of power in the way she handles herself. She settles back in her chair, squaring her shoulders, and she speaks. “On the night of November eighteenth to nineteenth, a rogue squad of United States Army soldiers, under the command of US Army lieutenant James Shelley, along with a senior officer now deceased, trespassed on my private property, kidnapped myself and two of my employees, stole a two-hundred-twenty-million-dollar transport plane, and used it to convey me halfway around the world—endangering my life multiple times during the flight—before finally delivering me here, where I have been illegally and inhumanely incarcerated ever since. I demand my immediate release and restoration to my country of origin so that I may pursue this case in person, as is my right as an American citizen.”
“Ms. Sheridan,” the interrogator says in a tone of angelic patience, “you stated ‘a rogue squad of United States Army soldiers.’ How did you arrive at this identification?”
Her smile is thin and hungry. “Lieutenant James Shelley is no stranger to me. We had met and talked before the night of the assault. I knew him by his voice, even when he was still wearing his LCS helmet.”
“LCS?”
“Linked combat squad. Cyborg soldiers. Their wiring ties them together. Where you find one, you find more than one. Lieutenant Shelley had his squad with him. He led them in a criminal enterprise. I believe that’s called undue influence?”
Harvey growls under her breath, “Because the rest of us can’t think for ourselves?”
I swear Jaynie kicks her under the table.
Discipline in my squad is definitely slipping.
• • • •
It’s late afternoon, but the judge is under orders to get this court-martial done with all possible speed, so there’s no talk of adjourning for the day. Instead, Monteiro turns to address trial counsel.
“Fifteen minutes, ma’am.”
“Granted.”
So we file out again, to sit in stony silence around the table in the conference room. When we return, Fong stands again, grim faced. “Your Honor, the government is unable to report on the current status and condition of Thelma Sheridan. We request that we be allowed to proceed with the video deposition, which has been corroborated, and already reviewed by the defense.”
“Granted,” Monteiro says. “Proceed.”
• • • •
Thelma Sheridan hasn’t lost any of her ferocity. Dressed in a gray cotton smock and gray pajama pants, she’s sitting on a steel chair in a concrete room with stained walls and no windows. The room’s light has a yellow cast. Her chin is tucked. She looks up from under her brow line, a fighter, a cornered predator, poised to spring.
“State your name for the record,” a woman’s voice says in crisp, accented English. Sheridan’s lip curls as if this is something to fight over. But she complies. “Thelma Han Sheridan. I am an American citizen, the victim of a kidnapping, and I am being held illegally—”
“I remind you, Ms. Sheridan, this is a video depositionintended to cover the events of November eighteenth to twentieth. Your recorded testimony will supplement an extensive video record, and will be used in court-martial proceedings in the United States.”
“Yes, ma’am. And I would like to attend those court-martial proceedings, in person. As the victim in this crime, it’s my right.”
The interrogator’s voice is not British, but it reflects a British education, with every word crisply pronounced as she states in a matter-of-fact tone, “Ma’am, it is not presently possible for you to attend, as you are engaged in your own separate legal proceeding. But the United States values your testimony. So could you please describe exactly what happened the night of November eighteenth to nineteenth.”
Sheridan’s brows are not so well groomed as they used to be, her hair has lost its shiny, metallic polish, but there is still a staggering sense of power in the way she handles herself. She settles back in her chair, squaring her shoulders, and she speaks. “On the night of November eighteenth to nineteenth, a rogue squad of United States Army soldiers, under the command of US Army lieutenant James Shelley, along with a senior officer now deceased, trespassed on my private property, kidnapped myself and two of my employees, stole a two-hundred-twenty-million-dollar transport plane, and used it to convey me halfway around the world—endangering my life multiple times during the flight—before finally delivering me here, where I have been illegally and inhumanely incarcerated ever since. I demand my immediate release and restoration to my country of origin so that I may pursue this case in person, as is my right as an American citizen.”
“Ms. Sheridan,” the interrogator says in a tone of angelic patience, “you stated ‘a rogue squad of United States Army soldiers.’ How did you arrive at this identification?”
Her smile is thin and hungry. “Lieutenant James Shelley is no stranger to me. We had met and talked before the night of the assault. I knew him by his voice, even when he was still wearing his LCS helmet.”
“LCS?”
“Linked combat squad. Cyborg soldiers. Their wiring ties them together. Where you find one, you find more than one. Lieutenant Shelley had his squad with him. He led them in a criminal enterprise. I believe that’s called undue influence?”
Harvey growls under her breath, “Because the rest of us can’t think for ourselves?”
I swear Jaynie kicks her under the table.
Discipline in my squad is definitely slipping.
• • • •
It’s late afternoon, but the judge is under orders to get this court-martial done with all possible speed, so there’s no talk of adjourning for the day. Instead, Monteiro turns to address trial counsel.
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