The Final Battle Read online

  “I wish I could,” Cortez said. “Problem is, I can’t.” He pushed himself to his feet with an obvious effort; he looked like a beaten man. “Come, Major; we have a report to write.”

  In silence, Michael watched them leave. “Damn, damn, damn,” he muttered. “What the hell do we do now?”

  “Michael!” Sedova snapped. “Didn’t you tell me once it’s not over until the Hammers bang the coffin lid down on us?”

  ”I think they just did.”

  Sedova thumped the table with both fists “Bullshit!” she snapped. “What is the matter with you?”

  Annoyed now, Michael scowled at her. “Piss off. I’m not in the mood for any rah-rah speeches.”

  “And you won’t get one, but you need to lift your game, son.”

  “And why should I do that? I think it’s over; I really do. The Hammers will win; the Feds, the Revival, the NRA will lose; and I’ll never see Anna again because Jeremiah fucking Polk will never rest until DocSec gets its hands on me, and when they do …” Overwhelmed by the extent of the defeat hanging over their heads, Michael could not go on.

  “This is not over, Michael. Jaruzelska said so herself. If she says it’s all finished, then fine. I’ll accept that and go find myself a job somewhere the Hammers won’t bother me.”

  “Have to be a long way away,” Michael said. “When it comes to empire building, a megalomaniac like Polk won’t stop until he’s got his foot on every last system in humanspace.”

  “I’m sick of your sad face, so I’m off to find a beer. Feel free to join me when you’ve got your shit back together.”

  And when will that be? Michael asked himself as Sedova stormed out, slamming the door hard behind her.

  Monday, April 22, 2402, UD

  Clevennes, Asthana planet

  Vice Admiral Jaruzelska had sat silently throughout Cortez’s presentation.

  Now she leaned forward to look the man in the face. “I have a lot of questions, General, as you would expect, but none I need to ask now. What is important is that I’m convinced, and that brings us to the next problem.”

  “How to get your government to agree.” Cortez’s face was sour with frustration. “We’ve been watching the newsvids from the Federated Worlds, and it’s … very depressing, I have to say.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is, and things won’t get any better. The cease-fire agreement is scheduled to be ratified by our Chamber of Deputies, let me see … yes, in less than twelve hours, and it will be. Ferrero has the numbers on the floor of the chamber, so it’s a done deal. The opposition will do what they can, but nobody listens to them, and anyway, there aren’t enough of them left to make a difference.”

  “Not even if we tell everyone what the Pascanicians are doing to restore the Hammers’ antimatter capability and what that means not just for the Worlds but for the rest of humanspace?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “But why?” Cortez demanded. “Won’t the facts speak for themselves?”

  Jaruzelska shook her head emphatically. “No. Our intelligence agencies have a different view of what the Pascanicians are up to. Put simply, they’ve bought the cover story the Hammers have put out that they are helping to modernize your—”

  “Not ours,” Cortez growled.

  Jaruzelska put up a conciliatory hand. “Sorry,” she said. “Our intelligence people say the Pascanicians are helping to modernize the Hammers’ starship production program, and it will be very hard to change their minds. That means—and please don’t take this the wrong way, General Cortez—the Federated Worlds will only have the NRA intelligence you have provided. I’ll tell you now; it will be seen as tainted, self-serving, and therefore unreliable.”

  “So what do we do? We can’t just give up.”

  “No, we can’t, though to be honest, I am not at all sure what we do next. I need to get back to the Federated Worlds, meet with some people, see what our options are. Give me a week and we’ll talk again.”

  “I guess that’s the best we can ask for,” Cortez said, his voice dulled by disappointment.

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  Wednesday, April 24, 2402, UD

  Leaving Clevennes, Asthana planet

  Michael stared out of the mobibot’s window, still depressed by Jaruzelska’s less than enthusiastic response to General Cortez. Bakker sat up front in grim silence; all she’d said was that they were heading for a new safe house. Where it was and how long it would take to get there, Michael had no idea. Before long, he drifted into sleep and his head toppled over onto an already unconscious Sedova’s shoulder.

  Bakker’s voice dragged Michael up and out of the darkness. “Wake up!” she shouted, punching his shoulder to get his attention. “Wake up!”

  “What’s up?” Michael asked, bleary-eyed and confused by the panic in her voice.

  “Not sure,” Bakker said, “but we were passed by a mobibot five minutes ago, and two more have just turned up behind us. That’s not normal, not on this road.”

  Adrenaline flooded Michael’s system. In an instant he was wide awake, and his mind went up a gear as he struggled to work out what to do. “We should abandon this bot, take off on foot.”

  “Too late. Look out the window.”

  “Shit,” Michael hissed when he spotted the surveillance drones—a cluster of tiny black spots against the morning sky—dropping into position around them.

  Then their options ran out. The road ahead was blocked by two mobibots, and four figures, hooded and armed with assault rifles, waited for them. The road behind them was closed off by two more fast-approaching vehicles.

  “I’m sorry, guys,” she said, her voice thick with defeat. “I think we’re about to get screwed.”

  Fear, malevolent and all-consuming, surged through Michael’s body, turning his guts to water and his mind to mush. Every instinct told him he had to get away. He lunged for the door. “Go, Kat, go!” he shouted. He slapped the controls to open and threw himself out. He hit the ground hard, too hard. He rolled and tumbled; gravel ripped his shirt off and tore at his back. He slid to a stop. Ignoring the pain, he started to his feet. He got no farther before he was hit hard in the small of his back, first one blow and then another and another. A microsecond later, every nerve ending in his body exploded into white-hot agony that plunged him into unconsciousness before he’d even reached the ground.

  • • •

  Michael was confused. Why was his face cold and wet? Why was he so tired? He just wanted to sleep, but he was being shaken and the light was getting brighter and brighter. It drove splinters of agony into his brain. His head thrashed from side to side in an attempt to get away. “Too bright,” he mumbled. Then a hood was slipped over his head, and the light was gone.

  “He’s awake,” a distant voice said. It was a man’s voice: flat, metallic, nasal. The man was using a processor to conceal his accent. With a rush, memory flooded back, and with memory came a raw terror that devoured his self-control, a terror fueled by the awful certainty that somehow the Hammers had found him. “I’ll get the medics,” the voice said.

  Michael put up with the indignity of being stripped naked for a complete medical examination. It’s not like the Hammers to worry too much about the health of their victims, he thought, so they must want me in good shape. But why? For a show trial?

  His sprits sank into utter despair.

  The examination over, hands grabbed him and lifted him to his feet. “Who are you?” he asked as he was hustled forward.

  “Don’t waste your time asking questions,” the same flat voice said. “You’ll get no answers from us. Now, we’re going to put you in the shower. You can take your hood off, but do not turn around. If you even think about trying, I’ll stunshoot you. Understood?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. When you’ve finished and dried off, tell us. We’ll put the hood back on, and you can get dressed. Then we’ll take you to a cell. Once you’re inside, you can take the hood off, and we’l
l get you some food. Any time we bang on the door, stand up and put the hood back on. Is that all understood?”

  “Yes,” Michael said.

  “Right, let’s do it.”

  Wednesday, May 1, 2402, UD

  In pinchspace

  The days had dragged by. The daily routine did not change: three good meals, a shower, and a change of clothing. Other than that, he was left alone, no doubt watched by surveillance holocams every second of the day.

  He was onboard a starship in pinchspace; Michael had worked that much out. He’d learned nothing else since he’d been kidnapped, and not knowing who his kidnappers were—logic said it had to be the Hammers, since nobody in humanspace wanted to get his hands on him as badly as his nemesis, Chief Councillor Jeremiah Polk—gnawed at him. But no matter how often he asked, he never got an answer.

  He lay on his bunk. Boredom and frustration had long since displaced fear; he was beginning to think he would to go insane if the starship didn’t get to wherever it was going and soon. He wondered how Anna was; he stifled a stab of anxiety at an unwanted image of her charging forward, assault rifle spitting death as she took on a mob of Hammers single-handed.

  A metallic voice interrupted his silent prayer that he would live long enough to hold Anna in his arms again. “We’ll be dropping out of pinchspace in five minutes.”

  “And about time, you asshole!” Michael screamed with sudden fury, erupting to his feet, fists hammering out his fear against the door. But there was no response, and the silence hung heavy. “Jerks,” Michael muttered, slumping back onto his bunk.

  • • •

  Hours after they had dropped into normalspace, Michael sensed the subtle changes in the artgrav that told him the starship was decelerating in-system. Commitment; it has to be Commitment, he thought. And that means my day of reckoning is at hand. He shivered, the memory of the last time the Hammers had gotten their hands on him still red-raw.

  A fist hammered on the door. “Stand up, hood on,” a voice said.

  Michael took a deep breath to steady himself, then did as he’d been told. The door banged back. He was grabbed, plasticuffed, and hustled out of his cell, all without a single word being said, his repeated demands to be told what was going on ignored.

  After a long walk, a change of air gave him part of the answer he was looking for: He was in a shuttle.

  He was headed dirtside.

  • • •

  A lifetime later, Michael climbed out of the mobibot he had been pushed into after the shuttle had landed. The sun was hot on his back, and even through the hood, the air was thick with the smell of plants running riot.

  I’m in the country, he thought, but which goddamned country?

  “Right, this is what’ll happen,” a voice said, cutting his plasticuffs off, “so pay attention.”

  “Yeah,” Michael muttered. “Like I give a shit.”

  He was ignored. “Stay where you are,” the voice continued. “In five minutes, take the hood off. You’ll see a road. Walk down it. Half a klick on you will come to a small village. You’ll be met there. Don’t try to run, don’t turn back, and don’t leave the road. We will watch you every step of the way, and I’ll stunshoot you if you don’t follow my instructions. Understood?”

  “Yeah, but what the hell is this all about?”

  “Just do what you’ve been told. You’ll find out when you’re supposed to.”

  “Fuck off, you prick,” Michael said, by now hopelessly confused. None of it made any sense, but he waited the five minutes anyway. When the time was up, he ripped the hood off and tossed it away. He looked around. It didn’t help; he might have been anywhere in humanspace. He started to walk down the road, too tired and dispirited to do anything else. He reached the village and stopped. It was not much of a place. There was not a soul in sight, but the fact that it was not a Hammer village—for a start, there were none of the propaganda banners the Hammers liked to plaster everywhere—lifted his spirits a fraction.

  Why he had been taken off Asthana the way he had, he could not understand, but wherever he had ended up, it was not on a Hammer planet. That was all he cared about right now.

  But what the hell was he supposed to do now?

  Baffled, he began to think he should go knock on a few doors when a large mobibot came down the road and stopped in front of him. Four men climbed out; they spread out into an arc and walked over to where he stood.

  “Michael Helfort?” one of the men asked. “Lieutenant Michael Helfort?”

  “Yes,” Michael replied, his face twisted into a puzzled frown, “but how’d you know that?”

  “I’m Detective Inspector Macauley, Jamuda Planetary Police. I have—”

  “Jamuda? What am I doing—”

  “Lieutenant!” Macauley barked. “You can ask all the questions you like, but not now, okay?”

  “No, it’s not okay,” Michael snapped back, glaring. “I’ve been stunshot, kidnapped, dragged halfway across humanspace, and dumped on some shithole of a planet I’ve never heard of, so if you don’t mind, I’ll ask all the damn questions I like, and I’ll keep on asking until I get some fucking answers, all right?”

  Macauley’s face hardened. “Listen to me, Helfort. Shut your damn mouth or I’ll stunshoot you myself. Is that understood?”

  Common sense prevailed. Taking a deep breath, Michael nodded.

  “Good. Lieutenant Michael Wallace Helfort, I have here—” Macauley held out a piece of paper. “—a warrant for your arrest pending a formal extradition request from the government of the Federated Worlds. You will be remanded in custody until your extradition hearing. Do you have any questions?”

  Hundreds, Michael thought as he took the warrant. He could not speak, stunned into silence by the terrible realization that he must have been betrayed by the one person in humanspace he’d thought he could trust: Vice Admiral Jaruzelska.

  • • •

  “… and then the police turned up,” Michael said, “and I was arrested. The rest you know, François.”

  “Hmm,” the fresh-faced man sitting across the table said. “The Federated Worlds was behind your abduction from Asthana; there can be little doubt about that. The problem is that we have no way of proving it.”

  “Hah!” Michael snorted his derision. “One hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?” he said.

  “Of course it is, but without hard evidence, that’s all it is. I’m sorry, but how you got to Jamuda is irrelevant.”

  “So what are my options?”

  “Limited, to be blunt. The provisional arrest warrant specifies that you will be charged with aggravated grand larceny.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” Michael said. He tried to sound flippant. “I did steal three dreadnoughts, after all.”

  “I know you did, and the Federated Worlds were at war, which is why the charge specifies aggravated grand larceny. The bad news is that’s a capital offense …”

  “Oh,” Michael whispered.

  “… and unfortunately for you, Jamudan law permits extradition for capital offenses.”

  “So what?” Michael said, dismissing the problem with a wave of his hand. “The Federated Worlds haven’t executed anyone for centuries.”

  “That’s not a precedent you can rely on,” Hammel said. He pulled a piece of paper out of his folder and pushed it across the table. “This is a transcript from one of the Federated Worlds’ news networks, and needless to say, your arrest is the headline story.”

  “Those scum-sucking lowlifes,” Michael hissed after he’d read the page. “Bastards,” he said, and pushed the page back. “They don’t like me … not that they ever did.”

  “No, they don’t, and they’re not alone. There’s enormous pressure on your government not to waive the death sentence, and that pressure will not go away.”

  Michael’s head dropped into his hands; his mind raced. He looked up again. “You think they’d ask for the death sentence?” he asked.

  “I
think they will.”

  “Let them. President Diouf will never allow it.”

  François Hammel threw his hands up in frustration. “How can you know that?” he snapped. “Things have changed since you were last back home. The Hammers have your people running scared, and even Diouf has her limits.”

  “I’ve met the woman, François. I can trust her with my life. I don’t think the death sentence will be a problem.”

  “Your call,” Hammel said with a disbelieving shake of his head.

  “Any luck tracking down Lieutenant Sedova? Was she kidnapped too?”

  “There is no sign of her here on Jamuda. The Feds are only interested in you. Anyway, that’s it for now, so I’ll see you … let me think … yes, tomorrow afternoon,” Hammel said. He pushed his chair back and climbed to his feet. “That’ll give me time to talk to the people at Justice. I need to see how they feel about handing a man over to the people who had him kidnapped.”

  Unable to sleep, Michael lay awake long into the night. If the young lawyer from the public defender’s office was right, he was headed for a Fed court. The thought of the fear-fueled storm that would break over his head the minute he stepped onto Fed soil terrified him. He’d had a taste of what lay ahead after the Battle of Devastation Reef. What Giorgio Pantini from World News and his fellow gutterscum from the trashpress had in store for him would make that unhappy time pale into insignificance.

  Not that the trashpress was the problem. Staying alive was the problem, and he had trouble seeing how he’d do that.

  If he escaped extradition, he would end up dead. Jamuda might be a neutral system, but that would not stop the Hammers from coming after him. By now, it would be no secret where he was being held. He had seen the news reports; the Hammers would have seen it too.

  If he was extradited, he’d be tried in a Fed court, found guilty, sentenced to death, and, if his faith in President Diouf was misplaced, executed. And even if he escaped the death penalty, he’d be jailed for the rest of his life.

  “Oh, crap,” he said under his breath. “I am screwed.”