Base Metal (The Sword Book 2)

coffers unfilled, his promise broken. He'd failed her, just like the rest.
He staggered to his knees, lunged for the toilet, and wretched up his loss. He gagged and hurled until the pain in his guts matched the ache in his heart, and he wished, desperately, that this was still just a dream.
He collapsed onto his side, too exhausted to drag himself from the disgusting toilet. He lay on the stone floor, unable to think.
Then the door buzzed.
A bolt slammed, and two guards poured through the gap, weapons in hand. He didn't resist as they pulled him to his feet. He didn't fight as they yanked the hood over his head and buried him in black. He didn't even struggle when they clapped his hands behind his back, bound them in steel, and marched him into darkness.
He felt the clang of metal deck-plates under his padded slippers. He heard the buzzes and wails of electronic gates and locks as he passed. Hard hands shoved his back, yanked his shoulders nearly clean from their sockets, and rough voices snarled commands of "Move!" and "Stand up!" every time he stumbled.
A final buzz and thunk passed with the wind of a closing door, and they shoved him into a freezing chair. His manacles clattered, loosened, and then fell away. The hood ripped back, rose like a curtain, and he found himself staring into the face of the State across a brushed-steel table.
The man seated opposite him was late into middle age, with white-wings cutting through his receding black hair and steely eyes glaring out from a leathery grimace. The man's scarred lips peeled into a shark's grin under the glowpanel's glare. The man wore a suit, flat black-on-white, with the only points of color from the golden clip on his tie and pin in his lapel. It was the pin that commanded Firenze's attention and sucked the breath from his lungs. The golden eagle sat upon the world, set against the starburst field and the all-seeing-eye. He was not sat across from some detective, but from the Agency itself.
Firenze wished he had another bathroom.
The man noted his panicked stare. He gave a knowing smirk and a slight, almost-accidental brush of his collar, then leaned back and greeted, "Glad to see you're awake, Mister Firenze."
Firenze could only stare, mouth moving without sound.
The agent continued, savoring his words like a jungle cat circling its prey, "I think this was a decent demonstration of why we restrict the hardjack. Do you agree?"
This time, Firenze managed a mumble-gasp noise.
"I'll take that as a yes." The man said.
"I... alive?" Firenze forced out.
"We got to you just in time. You were foaming, seizing, shitting the bed- it was pretty close for a while, but the docs are good at resuscitating ledheads. You're welcome."
"What do you want?" Firenze managed.
"Now, that is a good question." The agent reached down into his briefcase and pulled out a stack of yellow paper, three centimeters thick, and thumped it onto the table. Firenze flinched, and the man continued, "A lot of people like everything high-tech, but me, I think paper lands with more gravitas."
Firenze opened his mouth, but the agent cut him off, "You're in a bad spot, Grant. You broke into a government installation and stole State secrets. If you don't start thinking right, you're gonna wish those doctors hadn't brought you back."
The man spun the paper stack, let Firenze read the bold red-and-black text. He traced his finger along the bullet-points, summarized aloud as Firenze reeled from the charges. The agent read, "The charges start with illegal wetware and end in..." he trailed off into a mock gasp, then stated, "Oh my. That's treason."
Firenze couldn't think. He couldn't feel. The agent let him flip through the paper, as the information rolled over him dumbly. Every page was stuffed with pictures, logs, and records, a damning diary of his every sin. Every time he'd helped Kendrix, every time he'd hung out with Suze, all of it documented with dates, times, and people, built into a growing network of subterfuge and sedition. He flipped the pages faster, even as his mind grew dumber, until he landed on the capper. He hadn't broken into just any Zeta vault; he'd breached the Terran Provisional Authority High Energy and Quantum Event Research Facility, Arclight.
This time he couldn't hold back. Firenze vomited over the side of the table.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the agent's bored eye-roll.
He was still gasping when he heard the man ask, "I take it you do know the penalty for treason?"
Firenze had no words, no answer.
"You had so much going for you," the agent commiserated, "but you threw it away. What will your mother think? She was counting on you, boy."
Firenze rocked slowly, the world ringing around him.
"Tell me, was it worth it?"
He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He tried to vomit again, but there was nothing left.
"Oh, give it up." The man chided. "You're not thinking."
Firenze glanced at him, confusion and desperation blended.
"Christ, they said you smart, but I'm not seeing it."
A spark of anger set his words in motion, and Firenze demanded, "What do you want?"
"Me? Nothing. I'm just waiting to hear your side of the story."
"My... side?"
"Yeah." The man nodded, his pulled-leather face crinkled into a mockery of conciliation. "These charges are pretty damning, but maybe they're not the whole picture. Maybe you aren't an enemy agent, but a naive pawn in a greater game. Maybe you've screwed up, but you're a good boy and want to help work off that debt, turn State-side and cooperate with the investigation. That might lead to lower charges, something like conspiracy to commit sedition. It's the difference between life in prison and the rope."
He continued, "Of course, you wouldn't last long in that prison. Inmates don't like narcs, they don't like deviants, and they really like soft young boys. Not a good combination. I'd hate to be that warden, explaining to your mother how her baby died from pink slop."
Firenze stared.
"You know what