“Before we proceed, we just need to check a couple of things.”

  LaCruz lifted the pack of medical equipment in the warden’s general direction. He acquiesced to her unspoken request by showing them into a small examination room. There were various pieces of medical equipment standing around the walls. Most looked to be at least thirty years old.

  Morton took a scanner from the pack and indicated for Faulkner to extend his hands, palms down. She swept the backs of them, the violet lasers highlighting any sun damage and obvious lesions. Then she got him to turn his hands over while she repeated the process, letting the machine read everything down to the whorls of his fingertips.

  LaCruz consulted her screen.

  She nodded. They’d found a match.

  Morton moved across to take a look.

  The screen showed an x-ray of his right hand. Faulkner had broken his right thumb as a student at the Academy and this man had an identical break in the same area. But while there was evidence of a thumb fracture, it was almost lost amidst the mass of old fractures in the rest of his hand. His middle finger looked to have been broken numerous times, one of which had happened quite recently.

  The doctor’s words came back to her.

  He has not been well served here.

  The two women looked at one another. LaCruz’ expression had hardened – if such a thing were possible.

  Taking the tablet, Morton pinged the findings back to the main ship. Then she activated the microphone facility.

  “Could you please identify yourself?”

  She inclined the tablet towards him.

  “My name is Captain Robert Faulkner of the USDC ship…”

  “That’s fine, sir, thank you.”

  As well as running the voice recognition software, the tablet had also taken a sample of his breath. Morton handed it back to LaCruz while it cross-referenced the man’s pheromones.

  “Now I just need to shine this into your eyes. You may experience some slight discomfort.”

  He obliged her by opening his eyes as wide as he could.

  Morton held her breath while she scanned his retina. She’d caught a whiff of the man’s scent and for some reason it upset her more than anything else she’d experienced so far.

  When she’d finished, she put the scanner away and stood awkwardly, trying very hard not to look at anyone.

  The tablet chirruped twice to let her know that the results had been confirmed.

  “Everything checks out,” LaCruz said. “It’s him alright.”

  Morton went over to check the screen herself, keen to hide her delight from the others.

  Was there something she’d overlooked? Had she forgotten something? “Captain Faulkner, I’m so sorry. There’s been so much going on, we haven’t introduced ourselves. This is my, er, orderly LaCruz Jackson.”

  “An orderly?” Faulkner snorted. “Is that what she is? Pleased to meet you, Ms Jackson.”

  “And I am Doctor Elsbeth Morton.”

  Faulkner gripped her hand with surprising strength.

  “A pleasure to meet you, doctor.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was only as they prepared to dock with their mothership, the Syracuse, that Morton had the time to reflect on the day’s events.

  She began by reviewing all the checks they’d made to verify Faulkner’s identity. Had they missed something? Could the Yakutians have tricked them in some way? She determined that as soon as they were back aboard the Syracuse she’d re-test the samples of Faulkner’s blood, saliva and semen to ensure their veracity. It seemed unlikely that they’d missed something major, although the conditions they’d been working in had been far from ideal.

  She couldn’t afford to make a mistake on this. She had to be a hundred percent certain that this really was Robert Faulkner they were dealing with.

  The USDC had been careful to keep track of him throughout each stage of his time as a POW so there was no real issue as far as provenance was concerned. The thing that had set off alarm bells as far as she was concerned was the speed with which the Yakutians had organised his release. After so many false starts there had to be a very good reason for their uncommon haste.

  Morton’s first thought was that Faulkner must be seriously ill and that the Yakutians had only agreed to release him for fear that he might die in prison. There’d been cases of this before, with the Yakutians attempting to take the moral high ground by releasing terminally ill prisoners rather than allowing them to become a drain on their medical facilities. But Morton had used her time aboard the shuttle to check and re-check Faulkner’s heart, circulatory system and internal organs. Despite his obvious case of malnutrition, he appeared to be in reasonably good shape for a man of his age which, considering the length of his internment, was little short of a miracle. Still, she wouldn’t be completely happy until she was able to put him through a full set of diagnostic tests.

  As soon as they had docked, she thanked LaCruz and then headed off with her patient in tow. There were a number of protocols set in place for situations such as this, some of which, Morton had compiled personally. Because of Faulkner’s poor condition, he was prone to infection and so had to be taken directly to a just-built high dependency unit in the ship’s infirmary.

  The Syracuse’s captain, Commander Webster, had arranged to meet her there.

  Once inside the unit, Morton handed him over to the nurses who quickly got him showered and changed. He was even more malnourished than she’d first realised but he looked a little more human once they’d got him out of his prison uniform. While the nurses got him into bed she set up an I.V. line which she used to administer a sedative. Faulkner was asleep in seconds and, for the first time since she’d met him, Morton let out a long sigh.

  The sedative, a cocktail of dopamine based anti-depressants, was the first stage in his road to recovery. Morton knew from experience that prisoners, particularly those who’d suffered long periods behind bars, often found difficulty adjusting to the real world and invariably suffered from depression and other related mental health issues. Hopefully, the sedative would deal with those issues in the short term.

  The second, and most pressing concern for Morton, was the issue of Faulkner’s weight. He’d lost nearly half his bodyweight since he’d been in captivity and it was highly unlikely that his body would be able to process a regular meal. If he tried to consume one, he could end up making himself very sick indeed. At worst, it might even kill him.

  Short term, he would have to be fed intravenously. Hopefully, they would be able to wean him onto high energy gels before he left the ship. They were renowned for being sickly sweet but she reasoned that if she got enough of them down Faulkner’s throat, he’d have a decent chance of gaining some weight.

  “My God, look at the state of him.”

  Morton didn’t bother to look around.

  “Good afternoon, Captain Webster.”

  “Dr Morton,” Webster moved around to the other side of the bed, a look of disbelief etched on his face. “What on earth have they done to him? It is him, isn’t it?”

  “All the tests seem to say so.”

  “I can’t believe it! Look at his legs.”

  Morton went round to stand next to him. Though Faulkner’s lower body was covered with a sheet it was all too easy to see how terribly thin and misshapen his legs actually were.

  Webster couldn’t stop shaking his head. “Can you fix these?”

  “We could, but you’re talking about an awful lot of invasive surgery. It would be a lot to put him through at this stage and frankly I’m not sure it’d be worth it.”

  “He might not survive, you mean?”

  “There’s always a risk with surgery, but look at these x-rays.”

  A metal arm extended from the foot of the bed with a tablet embedded within it. The patient’s records were available at a glance.

  She said, “Honestly, it’s a wonder he’s still able to walk: multiple fractures of both the tibia and fibula. Either he’s been involved in a major accident or …”

  “They’ve tortured him.”

  Morton looked him directly in the eye. She couldn’t work out what to make of Webster. He just seemed far too young to be in charge of a ship, even one as modest as the Syracuse. With his tight curls and hazel eyes, he reminded her of one of the doctors on those daytime soap operas. Dreamy yet spurious. Perhaps that was why she found it so difficult to take him seriously.

  “That’s not for me to speculate on. Either way, whoever attempted to fix him up did a godawful job of it. Poor man must have been in agony.”

  “It’s odd to see him like this,” Webster said.

  “What were you expecting? Some kind of statue?”

  “I don’t know. I just expected him to be bigger, somehow. Scarier. The man’s renowned for being utterly fearless. There was even a Robert Faulkner Club when I was at the Academy. They used to get up to the most insane stunts.”

  “You sound like you’re disappointed.”

  “No. Well, yes. A little. The man’s possibly the most successful starship captain of the last fifty years. Certainly the most successful one who’s still alive.”

  “Though the Yakutians still consider him as a war criminal.”

  “A war criminal they never chose to put on trial. Why do you think that was?”

  “No way of prosecuting him without highlighting a lot of their own failings: poor decision making, things like that. They couldn’t afford for him to take the stand. I’d imagine that there were a few high ranking Yakutian officers who’d have their own reasons for ensuring Faulkner’s continued silence.”

  They stood and watched while a nurse changed Faulkner’s drip.

  Webster said, “I’ve been doing a bit of research. Since we knew he was coming aboard. You know, technically, he never lost a battle.”

  Morton laughed, “No? What about his last one?”

  Webster was not to be deterred from making his point. “They still teach that battle at the Academy. Under Military Ethics.”

  When Morton looked at Faulkner lying there she felt something clawing at her heart.

  “It’s hard to believe in concepts like ethics when you think about the way he’s been treated.”

  At that moment, Faulkner twitched as though he’d been struck, his hands flying up to cover his face. After several seconds he quietened, his hands dropped back and his breathing returned to normal.

  “Bad dreams?” Webster said.

  “It’s to be expected after what he’s been through. Come on.”

  She led Webster out of the room. They were both a little cowed after seeing Faulkner like that. Webster had clearly been expecting a great deal from seeing a war hero up close. But he was still quite young. He probably still thought of the Long War as some great adventure rather than what it was: a grim chapter in the formation of the Confederation.

  Webster might have been disappointed but Morton’s own feelings were just as irrational. She couldn’t quite work out why – considering the success of their mission - she couldn’t quite shake her sense of unease.

  To try and shake herself out of it, she resolved to spend thirty minutes on the treadmill before dinner. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d waylaid her demons through the simple act of physical exertion. But, as she headed towards the gym, she couldn’t help wondering if she wasn’t missing something. Something important.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Morton went down early for her meeting with Faulkner. They were three days out from Dhanza and it would be four more days before they arrived at their destination: Lincoln Station. She’d checked in with one of his nurses earlier that morning. It turned out that Faulkner was having one of his ‘difficult’ days. But that was to be expected. As soon as he became aware that they had him on anti-depressants, Faulkner made it clear that he would no longer be taking them in any form. Morton had done her best to warn him about the potential side effects of such a decision but he had been adamant.

  For while it might seem admirable for him to press ahead without any medical support, there was an obvious price to pay in terms of his emotional wellbeing. Depression was the least of Morton’s worries. A number of POWs in similar situations, unable to deal with the ‘shame’ of their capture had attempted to take their own lives upon returning home. With this in mind, Morton had taken the unusual step of putting him on suicide watch.

  She caught up with him the next day in the physiotherapy suite. He was lying on a massage table having his legs attended to. He didn’t appear to be enjoying the procedure. He had his eyes tightly shut and she could clearly see the sheen of sweat on his face.

  Faulkner didn’t open his eyes until the session was over and didn’t acknowledge Morton even then. He just stared up at the ceiling while the physio cleaned herself up and set about collecting her things. Morton waited until the woman had gone before speaking.

  “How are you feeling today?”

  “Relieved. Relieved to get that over with.”

  “Sania’s good but she takes no prisoners.”

  Morton regretted her poor choice of words even as she said it.

  Faulkner pushed his elbows underneath himself and attempted to sit up. The effort proved too much for him and he flopped back onto the table. Morton went to help him up but he raised a hand to deter her. He took a moment to catch his breath and then rolled onto his side, sliding his legs off the side of the bed.

  With a great effort of will, he managed to lever himself upright. He was worryingly thin and, dressed as he was in vest and shorts, it was impossible to ignore the damage that had been inflicted on him. His lower legs were a mottled, dark purple colour highlighting how poor his actual circulation was. His knees were a mass of scar tissue, his left kneecap having been permanently displaced to the right, making it almost impossible for him to straighten his leg. But it was his upper legs which were the most difficult to look at. His thigh bones were deformed from having been broken so many times.

  “Not exactly pretty, are they?” he said.

  “You do well to get around on those at all.”

  “Plenty of people in a worse state back on Dhanza.”

  “You consider yourself one of the lucky ones?”

  He looked down and casually pinched the flesh of his thigh.

  “Now that’s the odd thing: I do that and I hardly feel anything at all. But when that nurse…”

  “Physio.” Morton interrupted. “She’s a physiotherapist.”

  “Like I said, when that nurse gets her hands on me: agony.”

  “Must be doing you some good, though.”

  Faulkner eased himself down off the bed. “I’ll have to take your word for that, doctor. Could you pass me that robe?”

  Morton handed it across. As he was putting it on, Morton was reminded of one of those fly-weight boxing champions from one of the early newsreels.

  She said, “May I ask, what that is?”

  She tapped her own forearm.

  “Oh, this?” Faulkner took a certain pleasure rucking up his sleeves. “This is my prison tat.”

  Morton approached, intrigued.

  “May I see?”

  The skin on his forearm was paper thin so that it was possible to see the pulse of his radial artery at his wrist. As he rolled his sleeve higher, she got a good look at the tattoo. Clearly the work of an amateur, it was fashioned in such a clumsy manner that Morton grimaced.

  “You don’t like it?”

  She shook her head, anxious not to offend him. “It’s not that. It’s just that I don’t see you as the tattoo type.”

  “No, I’ve always liked tattoos,” he rubbed the skin as if trying to clarify the image. “But as a young officer I had to resist the urge. ‘Never make captain with one of those.’ Anyway, once I was locked up I saw things a little differently.”

  Morton examined it in more detail. “What does it say?”

  “It’s Latin. Oderint dum metuant.”

  “I studied Latin at school but I can’t make head nor tail of that.”

  “Let them hate so long as they fear.”

  Not quite what she’d expected.

  “The Yakutians, I take it? And you still feel like that now?”

  He let the sleeve slip down over his wrist then looked up.

  “From my point of view, nothing’s changed. We’re still at war.”

  *

  Morton walked quickly towards sick bay.

  She’d received a message three minutes earlier from the nurse tending to Faulkner. When the woman had taken him his dinner, he’d knocked it across the room. The nurse had stepped out for a moment to get some cleaning equipment but, when she’d returned, Faulkner was nowhere to be seen.

  Morton could feel her heart tripping in her chest and fought the urge to pick up the pace. Nothing major could possibly happen in the time it took her to get to sick bay. Faulkner would be easy to trace in his medical gown and couldn’t have gone far anyway.

  Even so, she couldn’t help mentally reviewing a list of all the medical equipment he might have access to with which he might do himself harm. All medical sharps used in his treatment were scrupulously accounted for and went straight into the incinerator.

  Then she started to think about his robe. Didn’t that come with its own belt? But then, if he really wanted to hang himself, there were a thousand other things which he could fashion into a noose. She had a brief image of Faulkner hanging from the ceiling, his face cloaked in darkness, his sleeve rolled up to reveal his tattoo.

  Oderim dum metuant.

  What an idiot she’d been!

  Let them hate so long as they fear.

  Well, she was certainly fearful now.

  The young nurse was in a state of panic when Morton got there. After re-assuring her and checking that Faulkner wasn’t hiding in the room, the pair of them set off in different directions.

  Morton began checking every room on her side of the floor. A number of rooms denied her access which she initially found frustrating but then she reasoned that if she couldn’t gain access then neither could Faulkner.

  Morton was ten minutes into her search when she received an inquiry on her ear bud.