Helfort's War Book 4: The Battle for Commitment Planet (4 page)

“Oh, what the hell. As you know, I’m not an unreasonable man, Michael. I know it’s going to be hard for you to get to Scobie’s, so why don’t we say October 1? I think that’s only fair, don’t you? But do not be late, d’ you hear?

“Before I go, there is one last condition, so pay attention. Do not even think about telling anyone about this little arrangement
of ours. Nobody. Because the minute we find out you’ve opened your big mouth—and we will—the deal’s off and Lieutenant Cheung will be starting the party with my troopers early. You can trust me on that, Michael. Anyway, that’s it from me. Looking forward to seeing you real soon. Bye, now.”

   Ferreira sat back in her chair, her face twisted into a mask of shock and anger. For a while she struggled to speak.

“Those Hammer bastards,” she said at last. “You think they’d do that?”

“Hand the woman I love over to a bunch of psychopathic DocSec troopers for a gang-rape party followed by a firing squad?” Michael said, his face creased with pain. “Oh, yes, Jayla, oh, yes. I think they’d do that. I know the man in the holovid. Colonel Erwin Hartspring is exactly as you see him.” Without knowing it, Michael ran his fingers across his cheek, where Hartspring’s riding crop had slashed his face open all those months before. “I think he’d throw his own mother to those DocSec animals if it suited him.”

“Sweetjeezus,” Ferreira whispered. “So what … what happens next? What will you do?”

“What can I do?” Michael said. “Without the right orders, I can’t even get off Nyleth, never mind get all the way to Scobie’s. I’m screwed, Jayla, and because of me, Anna will die a death worse than your worst nightmares, a death so horrific you don’t even want to think about it.”

Ferreira nodded but said nothing. The silence dragged on for an age before she spoke again. “Tell you what, sir,” she said when she climbed out of the armchair. “Leave the problem with me. I’ll have a think about it. In the meantime, I’m exercising my authority as
Redwood
’s medical officer to order you to take a day’s bed rest. I’ll have a medibot come and check you out, prescribe something that will at least allow you to get some sleep. I’ll run the hot wash-up and have the report for you to look at when you’re ready to deal with it. That okay?”

“Fine by me, Jayla,” Michael said, his voice flattened into a monotone. “That’s fine by me.”

“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Ferreira halted at the door and turned back to look at Michael. “Thanks for telling me,
sir. I’m glad you did. Maybe we can find a way to sort this mess out.”

“I hope so, Jayla,” Michael said, his face a wooden mask. Unburdening himself to Ferreira had lifted his spirits, but not for long. The familiar feeling of sick dread had flooded back; he knew with a terrible certainty that Ferreira could do nothing to help him.

It was very simple. Either he found a way to hand himself over to Colonel Hartspring or Anna died.

And if Anna died, he might as well be dead, too.

Jeremiah Polk consigned the file to the trash and sat back. He allowed himself the luxury of a brief, wintry smile, buoyed by Colonel Hartspring’s report.

“That’s very good,” he said to the man opposite. “It seems we are close to getting our hands on Michael Helfort.” He paused to savor the prospect: Helfort, beaten, bruised, and bleeding, a man on his knees, cringing, hands outstretched, begging for forgiveness, pleading for his life … and then the moment of truth, a DocSec trooper’s gun pressed hard into his temple, his eyes dulled as all hope vanished, the moment when Lieutenant Michael Wallace Helfort understood that he was about to die.

“Not long now,” he added. “Not long now.”

“No,” Councillor de Mel said. “Not long now. The psychological profiling we have done on Helfort tells us that he will do anything to save Miss Cheung, though why anyone would throw his life away for a woman is beyond me.”

“He’s a Fed, that’s why,” Polk said with a sneer. “Bloody Feds! Cut away their arrogance and what do you find? Weakness,
that’s what. Which is why we are going to win this damn war, Councillor. The Feds are piss-weak, and we are not. I have to hand it to Colonel Hartspring, though. He’s done well.”

“I’ll be sure to let him know, Chief Councillor.”

“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 think 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.

“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.”