Chapter Eighteen

While the scientists were working on the mathematics of launching something past orbit, Hamaf and his men began figuring out how to safely manage the conveyance of prisoners from the cell block deep below the surface of the base to the silo from which they would be launched. 

The main issue wouldn't be the prisoners, it would be keeping people from knowing what was being done to the prisoners.  If word actually got out that they were launching people into upper space tied to rockets, or inside of rockets, or hanging onto rockets for dear life, then they would have to keep people from getting to the prisoners and saving them. 
Hamaf stopped and looked at his own analysis.  Saving them, not breaking them out, not getting in the way, saving them.  The implication of his words was that he considered the idea of these criminals being sent to their deaths in the name of science to be undeserved, that they ought to be rescued from their fates.  He quickly corrected it. 
..And trying to stop the experiments. 
His superiors would find that much more agreeable.  After all, the last thing they would want is to consider the possibility that their man in the field didn't want these people dead.  For him that would be dangerous, deadly even.  For them it would be unnerving, terrifying even, to consider that a faithful servant of the empire had turned against it after a few months in the ship. 
But as sure as Kevand kept birds, he was a faithful servant of the empire, wasn't he?  He'd never dream of saving, trying to stop a prisoner's execution.  Not that it would be hard, most of the men agreed with him.  Or rather, disagreed with the plan.  He, or anyone else with his exact level of knowledge and authority, could easily just have the prisoner conveniently leap down this ventilation shaft into a waiting net, then crawl down this shaft to the laundry room, allowing him to. 
What was he thinking?  These were murderers, thieves, and worse thy didn't deserve to live.  Freeing them wouldn't just be wrong it would be downright evil. 
But what if they wer political prisoners?  Just normal people who thought things could be a little better than they were and said it?  Did they deserve to die too?
He waited for the arguement to come as it had so many years ago.  Of course they deserve it, all traitors deserve to die.  But it didn't.  How could an empire that would so casually drag away weary troops from their families and then hide them away just to keep the truth from coming out be just?  For all he knew these were just men like himself, or women like Collin or.
Not Jeanine, she was different.  She wasn't just a traitor, she was..was..well she had known better.  And murder, even against someone as horrible as him, was unfogivable.  It went against everything he'd ever taught her. 
"Sir?"
Jor was in the doorway.  He looked genuinely concerned, rarely a good sign, not that there had been many of those lately. 
"Yes?"
"Come down to the cell block, one of the new prisoners has...is..you'll want to see her sir."
He studied his newly appointed second-in-command's face.  He knew the prisoner, and Jor knew the prisoner, and Jor knew that he wouldn't want to see the prisoner.  Only one person, much less one woman, could possibly be involved.
"Jor, you are to do this personally.  And you are not to allow any of the men to know it has been done, whom has ordered it, or whom it has been done in regards too."
"Yes sir, it will never happen"
"Escort my daughter to the laundry room, I will meet her there.  You will remain on guard outside, inform anyone who comes by that I have been ill and am washing my bed sheets."
"Yes sir."
Jor left.  He seemed confused by the idea that he'd want to meet with his daughter in private.  After the long years of enity between them, he was surprised himself.  But he needed answers, and some unseen force seemed to be directing him to meet with her once again.