The battle for Commitment planet hw-4 Read online

  "You do that. Doctrinal Security needs more officers like him. Smart, focused, creative, not afraid to get his hands dirty when he needs to. A man who listens to what his chief councillor wants… not like some." He stared at de Mel, forcing the man's eyes to turn away.

  "Chief Councillor!" de Mel protested. "I never-"

  "Spare me," Polk said. "I know what you think. I know what your staff thinks. I know you think it's absurd I even care about Helfort, but let me tell you this, Councillor. Helfort has his detractors, but to millions of Feds he's a hero. Can you imagine how they will feel when I bring the hero of Hell's Moons, the hero of Devastation Reef, back to face Hammer justice? And he will face justice; he will answer for the Hammers he killed after the breakout from I-2355"-anger had taken hold; Polk's voice had become a shout-"for the men he killed in the attack on Barkersville police station, for killing Kraa knows how many men while he destroyed Kraneveldt. We destroy the Feds when we destroy their gods, and Helfort is one of their gods."

  Polk slumped back in his seat, the anger gone as fast as it had come. "But you know all that, Councillor."

  "Yes, Chief Councillor," de Mel said feebly. "I do, and I agree with everything you say."

  "Yes, I'm sure you do," Polk said. He did not much care whether de Mel agreed. Helfort was an itch he had the power to scratch, so scratch it he would. "Now, enough of that matter. What's next on the agenda?"

  "The attack on Governor Bharat's compound."

  "Kraa damn it," Polk muttered, the elation and excitement sparked by Helfort's imminent capture gone in an instant. Please, Kraa, he prayed, let me have one day without bad news, just one. He'd seen the holovids: A daring attack on the regional governor's elaborate private compound had left the governor and most of his staff dead and his prized compound a blazing pyre spewing a column of smoke into the sky, a triumphant beacon of defiance visible to millions of ordinary Hammers. "Let me guess. The NRA did it, they escaped, DocSec has nobody in custody, and the morons on the streets out there"-he jabbed a thumb at the window-"approve of what's happened. Am I right?"

  "Yes, sir. I'm afraid you are. Support for the NRA and its political wing, the Nationalists, is up eight points. Governor Bharat was an unpopular man."

  Polk snorted, openly derisive. "Bharat? Unpopular? Kraa, what a fucking understatement! The average Hammer hated the jerk. And are we surprised? No, we are not," Polk said. "Governor Bharat was brutal, greedy, and corrupt, and we both know it. He was also too stupid to know when to stop shoving his fat hands into the pockets of ordinary Hammers. Well, he's paid for it now. Saves me having the sleazebag shot."

  De Mel said nothing.

  Polk sighed. "Okay. Next."

  "Yes, sir. You will have read my report on…"

  Polk watched de Mel leave his office. Why was there never any good news? Kraa, it was depressing. Everywhere he looked, the Hammer Worlds were in the shit up to their ears, and there seemed to be very little that he or anyone else in the Hammer government could do about it.

  The heretic New Revolutionary Army still refused to accept that fact that they were fighting a war they could never win.

  Despite the billions and billions of k-dollars invested in them, the PGDF-Planetary Ground Defense Force-had failed to dislodge the NRA from its bases in the Branxton Ranges.

  Instead of fighting the NRA, the PGDF preferred to bitch and moan about the marines. Things were so bad, Polk was convinced that the PGDF and the marines would rather kill each other than the NRA.

  Then there was Doctrinal Security. The pressure was beginning to tell: Morale was poor and getting worse, desertions were at their highest in a decade, and DocSec was so riddled with NRA agents, it was a miracle they had any secrets left at all.

  Add to all that the widespread social unrest, fueled by a sagging economy and endemic corruption, sparked into widespread street violence by every NRA success. How much worse could things get? Let me see, Polk thought, how about if the-

  "Chief Councillor, sir."

  The self-effacing tones of his personal assistant cut across Polk's litany of woes.

  "Yes, Singh?" Polk replied.

  "Councillor Solomatin's shuttle has landed, sir. He will be here in twenty minutes."

  Polk's chest tightened, a mix of fear and anticipation; maybe the day would bring some good news. "Fine. I'll see him when he arrives."

  "Yes, sir."

  Taking a cup of coffee from the drinkbot, Polk walked to the window. Perhaps things weren't so bad. Helfort was all but in the bag, Solomatin had promised good news, and best of all, the war against the Federated Worlds was going well. The Feds had neither the ships nor the spacers to force the war to a conclusion, so the conflict was dragging on in an endless sequence of minor engagements that did nothing to tip the strategic balance away from the Hammers. Polk had no complaints; the Hammer fleet would keep the Feds on the defensive for another five years, and five years would see the Hammers' new antimatter plant operational. Then it would be game over. He grinned a hungry grin of anticipation as he contemplated the prospect of the once proud and arrogant Federated Worlds bludgeoned to their knees by Hammer antimatter warheads. And when that happy day arrived, the Feds and every other inhabited system would acknowledge the new power in humanspace: Jeremiah Polk, chief councillor of the Hammer of Kraa Worlds.

  It was an intoxicating thought, and his head swam as he imagined how it would feel to stand a man alone, with all of humanspace at his feet.

  Polk stared at Viktor Solomatin, councillor for foreign relations, while the man found his seat. Solomatin was one of the least attractive human beings Polk had ever had the misfortune to work with. Given the way the Hammer Worlds' political system favored amoral thugs, that was saying something.

  Not that Solomatin was an unattractive man. Far from it: Men and woman alike loved his raffish good looks and effortless charm. No, the man's ugliness was all on the inside: His good looks concealed a vicious temper fueled by a dangerous combination of sadistic brutality and ruthless opportunism concealed under a veneer of urbane sophistication. A tiny shiver caressed Polk's spine with icy fingers; one had to know Solomatin to find him unattractive. If the man thought for one second it would be to his advantage, he would reach out across the desk and strangle the life out of Polk with his bare hands.

  "So, Councillor," Polk said. "I've read your report. I must say I am surprised our Pascanician friends are being so accommodating."

  "You shouldn't be, Chief Councillor," Solomatin grunted; he waved a dismissive hand. "They are venal, mercenary scum, which is why they refused to join the allied trade embargo after the last war: too much money to be made smuggling contraband. They'd sell their mothers for a buck. I think it's that simple. They see the upside, and we both know it's huge. With the Feds on the ropes, there's not much downside for them. We'll need to keep a lid on this, though. If the Feds find out before it's a done deal, they could still make things difficult."

  "I agree. We'll hold off briefing the rest of the council for the time being. What's the next step?"

  "Well, we have agreement on the main principles, so now it's down to the details."

  "How long?"

  "Hard to say, Chief Councillor. Agreeing on the time of day with the Pascanicians is like negotiating with a barrel of snakes, so it's not going to be easy, but I'd say year's end at the latest. I've agreed with Minister Felgate that we'll work toward a December meeting between you and the Pascanician president to tie up any loose ends. Provided we can, I think you'll be able to sign the treaty there and then."

  "That's doable?" Polk said, doubt creasing his forehead and narrowing his eyes. Solomatin did not do the Pascanicians justice; they were worse than a hundred barrels of snakes.

  "Yes, it is," Solomatin said, radiating an easy confidence. "Most certainly it is. Believe me, Chief Councillor, those greedy sonsofbitches want this every bit as much as we do. We stand to gain what we want and more, but so do they."

  "Year's end," Polk said. "I thi
nk that would be most satisfactory. Of course the Feds will find out, but when they do, it will be far too late. Well done, Councillor, well done."

  "Thank you, Chief Councillor," Solomatin said. Saturday, August 4, 2401, UD FWSS Redwood, in pinchspace en route to Nyleth-B

  "How are you feeling, sir?" Ferreira said.

  "Not so tired… you know…" Michael's voice trailed off into silence. He was lying, of course; he felt drained to the point of exhaustion.

  Redwood's executive officer nodded. "I know," she said. "I've been thinking about what you told me. I have some questions for you."

  "Okay."

  "First, is Anna that important to you?"

  Michael sat bolt upright, anger flooding his face. "What do you mean, is Anna important to me? Are you going to tell me I should just walk away, let Hartspring's goons-"

  "Steady, sir," Ferreira said, her voice calm, reasonable. "I'm not the enemy here. I'm just trying to understand things, okay?"

  "Ah, okay," Michael said, slumping back in his chair, the anger gone. "Sorry, Jayla."

  "No problem. So is she? That important, I mean."

  "Yes, she is. From the day I met her back at Space College, I've known that she's the one I want to spend my life with. In this whole screwed-up universe, she's the only one who means anything. So yes, she's important, more important than my life, my career, this ship, Fleet, everything."

  "Even the lives of your crew?"

  Michael's eyes narrowed; he looked at Ferreira for a long time. "No," he said eventually. "That is the one exception. No, Anna Cheung is not more important than the lives of my crew." His face twisted into a bitter smile. "I haven't lost the plot, Jayla."

  Ferreira smiled back. "I never thought you had, sir."

  "Let me put it this way, Jayla. If it takes my life to save hers, then that's the way it'll be. I won't allow Colonel Hartspring to destroy Anna because of me. I can't. For some reason, this whole fucked-up war has become personal, who the hell knows why. The Hammers hate me so bad, they'll do whatever it takes to get their hands on me. For chrissakes, I'm just a damn lieutenant doing his job, so why me? Don't they have better things to do with their time? Anyway, who cares why? The plain fact is that Anna's got nothing to do with any that, and I won't let her pay with her life for whatever it is I've done to piss off the Hammers. Simple as that."

  "I guess that answers the question," Ferreira said quietly. "So why haven't you told the brass? If you came clean, maybe they'd let you turn yourself over… if that's what you want."

  "Hell, yes. It's exactly what I want, but there's no point even asking. My security clearance is way too high. I know too much. I'd never get approval."

  "Thought so," Ferreira said with a frown. "What about neurowiping?"

  "Not an option. Apart from my neuronics, everything of value to the Hammers is in long-term memory, so I'd need a full neurowipe, which nobody in the Federated Worlds will give me. The law's clear: Without a court order following a conviction for a criminal offense, full neurowiping is illegal."

  Michael paused to rub eyes gritty with accumulated stress. "Chicken and egg. I need to get off the Worlds to find someone to neurowipe me so I'm no longer a security risk, but I can't get off the Worlds because I'm a security risk." He laughed, a short, bitter sound devoid of any humor. "Anyway, turning yourself over to the enemy in time of war is desertion. I don't think the admirals will be too keen to agree with that. No, I'm screwed, Jayla, and because of me, Anna's dead. The only woman I've ever loved, and she's going to die because of me."

  "Not sure that's true, sir," Ferreira said. "There may be another way."

  "Another way?" Hope flared in Michael's eyes for an instant, and just as quickly it died. "No, Jayla, there's no other way. If I'm not at the Hammer embassy on Scobie's by October 1, Anna's dead. The problem is I cannot see how, and believe me when I say that not a minute goes by without me trying to find a way."

  "Rescue?"

  "Fleet will never go for it even though we know where the Hammers are keeping Anna."

  "You know that?"

  Michael nodded. "I do. Anna's one smart woman. She encoded the information in her monthly vidmail. The survivors from Damishqui are in Camp J-5209, southeast of the Hammer capital, McNair, along with the crews of the rest of the task group destroyed in the Salvation operation. What's left of them, that is. Know how many made it to the lifepods, Jayla?"

  "No, sir."

  "Bit over four hundred spacers and marines. That's all that's left from eleven front-line ships thrown away in a pointless operation."

  "That was a bad business," Ferreira said. "My sister's husband lost a cousin. He was an engineer on Unukalhai. Poor bastards never had a chance."

  "No, they didn't, Jayla, but that's the price we pay for not standing up to our politicians. Anyway, we digress. Knowing where Anna is doesn't help us much. Breaking her out of the camp is feasible, but getting her and the rescue force off-planet is not. It's impossible. Anyway, it's all academic. Fleet will never buy it, not with the pressure on them at the moment. They don't have the ships to spare. Even if they had, why would they? In the end, Anna's only another spacer. They wouldn't care what happened to her. To be fair, they can't."

  "Umm," Ferreira said, eyes half-closed, finger to lips tapping out her concentration. "Umm… let me see… yes, based on what you've told me, the only option is a one-way rescue mission."

  "One-way?" Michael demanded. "What do you mean, one-way?"

  "The rescuers don't try to get off-planet. You are dead right. A rescue operation might be able to get past the Hammers' orbital defenses; it would never get back into space. Never. So they break Anna and everyone else out of J-5209 and head for the hills. The latest intelligence summaries say the Hammers' disloyal opposition-the New Revolutionary Army and their political wing, the Nationalist Party-is beginning to have some success. I'm sure they'd be happy to look after the rescue force."

  "I'm sure they would, Jayla," Michael said. "They looked after me when I was on the run after Ishaq was destroyed. The NRA's not the problem. The problem is how long the rescue force has to stay dirtside. Who knows how long this damn war will drag on? We're stalemated, and that looks like how it's going to stay. Fleet's saying what, five more years? So who'd want to be trapped on Commitment with a bunch of raggedy-assed guerrillas for that long? Maybe even longer-who would know? I've been there once, and that was enough, I can tell you. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone."

  "Tell you what, sir. Leave it to me. There are things I need to do. Can we pick this up later?"

  "We can, Jayla, we can. Anything I need to do?" Michael asked, all too aware that he had in effect dumped command of Redwood and the rest of the Nyleth squadron onto Ferreira's shoulders for the moment.

  "No, sir," she said with a broad grin. "All under control. Redwood's sweet, the troops aren't bitching any more than usual, the Hammer guests are quiet, and the marines are happy doing whatever the hell it is marines do when there's bugger all to do."

  Michael laughed. Ferreira's smile was infectious; knowing he was able to rely on her lifted his spirits. Sharing the burden of Colonel Hartspring's horrific message lifted them even further even if, deep down inside, a tiny, stubborn kernel of despair reminded him that there was nothing Ferreira could do to help him out of the Hammers' trap.

  "I'm pleased to hear it," Michael said. "Now, enough of this lying around stuff. I'm declaring myself fit-no, don't argue with me-so once I'm showered and changed, I'll walk through the ship and then I'll be in the CIC if you need me."

  "Sir."

  Watching her leave, Michael realized he had gotten something wrong. Even if there was something Ferreira could do to help him out of the Hammers' trap, he could not allow it. The problem was his and his alone, and that was the way it had to stay. He either found a way to turn himself into Colonel Hartspring or he didn't.

  But even though deep down he knew it would make no difference in the end, it still felt good to know that there was a
t least one person who understood the pain he was going through; the relief he had felt unburdening himself had been powerful and immediate.

  With the gnawing fear of what might happen to Anna buried for the moment, Michael felt better than he had for long time despite the fact that telling Ferreira about Anna had changed nothing. He set off to walk through Redwood even though his left leg had been painful all day. Walk! He smiled in spite of himself. The best he could manage was the awkward, stiff-legged limp he so hated, worried that people might think he was making more of the injury than it deserved.

  He did not have to do the walk-around. Mother-the ship's primary AI, the AI that kept Redwood's legion of AIs in line-kept him abreast of everything, but if he had learned anything during his time in the fleet, it was that a briefing from an AI was no substitute for seeing at first hand what was going on. He needed to; he had let his crew down badly. He-and they-had been lucky the Balawal-34 operation had not gone wrong.

  Stepping into a drop tube, Michael made his way down to Redwood's main hangar, a huge compartment once home to the cruiser's air group. The cavernous space held the ship's two landers: the massive bulk of Alley Kat and its much smaller cousin, a light ground-attack lander nicknamed Widowmaker. Michael approved of the name; he hoped that one day the lander would send its fair share of Hammers to meet their precious god, Kraa. Beyond them sat the temporary accommodation modules housing Redwood's marine detachment. Michael smiled when he saw what Kallewi and his marines were up to.

  Crash mats had been spread across the hangar deck. On them Redwood's entire complement of marines, an overstrength platoon totaling fifty, was involved in what looked like a minor riot, bodies diving and tumbling every which way while Kallewi and his platoon NCO, Sergeant Tchiang, barked orders and insults in equal mea sure. Spotting Michael, Kallewi called a halt, marines collapsing exhausted to the deck. Michael made his way over.

  "Abusing the troops again, Janos?"

  "You know me, sir. Busy marines are happy marines, even if they are kicking the crap out of each other. Free play self-defense drills. Fighting in a crowd is an art." Kallewi paused to look at Michael. "You okay, sir?"