Helfort's War Book 4: The Battle for Commitment Planet (52 page)

Michael’s face was grim; Hok’s story was one of many he had heard since joining the NRA. “We have to win this,” he said, “if only so people like you can know what happened. It must be tearing you apart.”

“Every minute of every day another little bit of me dies. There are hundreds of thousands of people, maybe millions of people, with stories every bit as bad as mine, some even worse, and that’s why we have to destroy the Hammers.”

“Yes, we do.”

“Enough navel gazing, Lieutenant. Drink your coffee and let’s get going. We have a lot to do.”

“Sir.”

   Rubbing her eyes, Hok pushed back from the holovid screen. “Please tell me that’s it.”

“Yes, it is. I’ll feed everything into the Long Shot simulation, run it again, and see what it comes up with … but we’re missing something.”

“Oh, Kraa help me,” Hok said with a heartfelt sigh. “Come on, then. What?”

“No, no. It’s not an intel issue.”

“So what is it?”

“Let’s assume for a moment that we can reach the Feds. Wha—”

“Isn’t that all that matters? What else is there?”

Michael frowned. “That’s just it. The more I look at it, the more I think getting to the Feds is not the problem. Persuading them to do what we want, to do what the NRA needs, is the problem. That’s the part that’s bothering me.”

“Holy Kraa. You have a gift for seeing problems. Tell you what. Let’s take this one step at a time. Work out how we get to the Feds and then worry about convincing them. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“… and that concludes my presentation.” Michael paused to glance around the room. “Are there any questions?”

“You’re kidding,” an anonymous voice whispered from the back. “You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly serious,” Michael said. “This has to be done, and what I’ve just shown you is the only way to do it. Any other comments or questions?”

“The deception plan,” a staffer said. “That seems to me to be the critical element of Long Shot. Two questions: Has ENCOMM signed off on it, and how well does it stand up in the sims?”

“Let me take that one, Lieutenant,” Brigadier General Cortez said, getting to his feet. He turned to the questioner, the head of ENCOMM’s strategic policy unit. “You are absolutely
correct, Charlie. The deception plan is the key. If it works, Long Shot works. If it does not, then … well, you can fill in the blanks. Has ENCOMM approved it? No, not yet. There’s more to be done. Does what we have so far work in the sims? Most of the time. So, speaking as the NRA’s chief of staff, we’re close but not quite there yet, which is why we’re all here today. We’ll get one chance at this, so it has to work, and I’m relying on all of you to identify and then fill in the gaps. I’m sorry; I’m getting ahead of myself. Questions?”

For the next two hours, Michael fielded questions that ranged from the farcically irrelevant to the worryingly probing, the process more than once erupting into heated debate. The one thing that kept him going was the fact that not one of the many people who spoke ever questioned the need for Long Shot. He should not have been surprised; one of the NRA’s greatest strengths was its willingness to face up to the realities of life, however unpalatable.

Finally Vaas was getting to his feet.

“Okay, folks. That’s enough for now. I have one more thing to say before we close. At its meeting this morning, the Resistance Council approved my recommendation that Operation Long Shot be scheduled for 04:45 Universal Time, March 24—”

There was a murmur of shock and dismay. Michael felt sick as the fact that Long Shot was going to happen crashed home, the impact as physical as a kick to the head.

“—so let’s get on to it. Thanks to those Kraa-damned Pascanicians, Long Shot won’t be given more time, so don’t bother asking. We know the things that need fixing, so fix them. That is all.”

Chief Councillor Polk stepped out of the lander into wind so cold that it seared its way down into his lungs, a single harsh sliver of pain. He flinched as a savage gust of wind lashed his face, the air filling with ice crystals blown off the ceramcrete runway. “What a Kraa-forsaken shithole this is!” he muttered as aides bundled him into the warmth of a large snow crawler.

“Welcome to Hendrik Island, sir,” a man dressed in a bulky cold suit said.

“Thank you,” Polk said, shaking the man’s hand. “Good to see you again, Doctor Ndegwa. Where do we start?”

“I thought you’d like to see our first consignment, sir.”

“Ah, yes,” Polk said, his face lighting up. “That I want to see.”

The ride was brief, the crawler making short work of the wind-drifted snow en route to a towering wall of laser-cut rock, a single slab of granite that climbed vertically to disappear into clouds flogged remorselessly across the sky by a southwesterly gale. Only minutes after Polk’s lander had touched down, he was stepping out of the crawler and into the warmth of Hangar 2B, a cavernous space hewn from rock, its vaulted ceiling studded with massed banks of high-intensity lights that threw a line of heavy cargo landers into stark relief, their shadows black against the ceramcrete floor. A small army of cargobots fussed around each lander, streaming up their ramps to reappear shepherding standard shipping containers, large gray boxes marked GOVERNMENT OF THE PASCANICI LEAGUE in Day-Glo letters a meter high.

“So, Doctor. What am I looking at?”

“Well, sir. That”—Ndegwa waved an arm across the landers—“is 625 million k-dollars worth of microfabs, each one capable
of turning out the components for a complete Kadogo-Penning stasis gen—”

“Doctor, Doctor, please! I’m no engineer, so spare me the jargon.”

Ndegwa bobbed his head. “Sorry, sir. Um … yes, you’re looking at the best microfabs in humanspace, far beyond anything we have access to. They will make the new antimatter plant’s critical components, and they will do in months what used to take us years. Each one is …”

Polk could only stare, Ndegwa’s words flowing over him unheard, relegated to background chatter by the full import of what he was looking at. Until this moment, the treaty of mutual support had been nothing more than black marks printed on pieces of old-fashioned paper, bound together, signed, and sealed with the great seals of the Pascanici League and the Hammer of Kraa Worlds. Although he had never doubted the Pascanicians, there was always a chance that they might renege. After all, if they did, what could the Hammer Worlds do?

But the Pascanicians had not reneged, and now the treaty was a real, living thing, its words transformed into actions, actions that made a difference, actions that would see the Feds crushed into slavery and the Hammer Worlds raised up to be masters of humanspace. His heart pounded with excitement. Another ten years, he thought, another ten years and the promise would be reality.

“… at which point, the microfab—”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Polk said, putting his hand up to halt what was fast becoming a lecture on microfab technology. “Most interesting. Now, tell me. What do you think of the Pascanicians?”

“Well, sir, they’ve not been with us long, so it’s a bit early to say. Professor Arnoldsen is of course one of humanspace’s leading authorities on magnetic flux engineering, so I have high hopes that they will more than live up to their reputation.”

Polk turned his gaze away from the landers to look right at Ndegwa. “I’m sure they will, Doctor,” he said, his voice silky with unstated menace. “I’m sure they will. I will be disappointed if they are not able to reduce processing times by the 40 percent you promised the project steering committee.”

“Yes, sir,” Ndegwa said, sweat beading under his eyes, each droplet a tiny pearl of fear sparkling in the brilliant light.

“Good,” Polk said, teeth bared in what he fondly imagined to be a smile of encouragement. “Where to next?”

“… and I owe you nothing less,” Michael said, pausing to look around at the Feds seated around the battered plasfiber table. “I owe Janos Kallewi”—Michael’s voice cracked under the weight of guilt he bore every waking minute of every day—“Dev Acharya, Jenna Radetska, and all the others who have died here on Commitment nothing less. I promise you this: I will do whatever it takes to get you all home safely. Now, I know you have to return to your units, so that’s all from me. Thank you for making the effort to be here to wish me and Kat luck; I can’t tell you how much we appreciate it. Thank you all again.”

The silence as Michael finished was total, and it lasted a long time. Slowly, reluctantly, the gathering broke up into small groups, the sound of their muted conversations filling the canteen with a soft buzz. Michael sat back to let them talk, intensely proud of the men and women who had been part of Operation Gladiator from the start. Without them Anna would be dead and he, too, most likely. He owed them an enormous debt, one he could never repay.

“Hello, spacer,” Bienefelt said, throwing her huge body into the seat alongside Michael, its plasfiber frame squeaking in protest. “Why so sad?”

“It’s okay for you to be so damn cheerful, Matti. You don’t have a race between an undermaintained heavy lander and every missile in the McNair air-defense command to look forward to.”

“You worry too much,” Bienefelt said, “and that’s a fact. Long Shot will work.”

“Yeah, maybe. Anyway, how’s the 246th?”

“Don’t ask! I prefer to do my fighting from a lander. I’m too big to be a grunt. I’m a hard target to miss.”

Michael winced. “Jeez, Matti! Don’t say that.”

“Don’t worry,” Bienefelt said, waving the stump of her left arm at Michael. “The 246th is full of people like me: the halt, the lame, not to mention the bewildered. It’s strictly security duties only. We’re taking over Romeo sector. I’ll be in charge of Portal Romeo-22. You can call me Sergeant Bienefelt, by the way.”

“Christ, another closet marine,” Michael said, rolling his eyes. “What with you and Anna, I’m having trouble keeping up. Promise me that there’ll be no charging the Hammers, rifle in one hand, crowbar in the other.”

“Shit, no,” Bienefelt said. “Well, not until I get enough time in a regen tank to grow this damn hand back. I’ll be a one-armed wonder for a long time yet.”

“Yeah, it’ll be a while.” Michael frowned. “Too many casualties, too few tanks.”

“Yeah. Listen, sir. I’ve got to go; the 246th waits for nobody. We’re moving out in a couple of hours. I just wanted to say … you know, take care and all that. I’ll be seriously pissed if you …”

“I’ll be back, Matti,” Michael said softly. “I’ll be back. Promise.”

“You better be or I’ll hunt you down and kick your bony little ass.”

“Bye, Matti,” Michael said, praying that the one-armed Bienefelt would still be around when he returned to Commitment.

Sedova walked over with her crew. “See you in the morning, Michael,” she said, looking as she did before every mission: indecently cheerful. He swore she did it to irritate him. She knew he suffered badly from premission nerves.

“You will,” Michael replied. “Thanks,” he said, shaking hands with the crew of the now-defunct
Alley Kat
.

Michael watched the rest of the Gladiator Survivors Club
trickle out of the FLTDETCOMM canteen. It had been an emotional meeting. The club had started with sixty-one spacers and marines; its numbers were down to forty-six now. He wondered how many would be left by the time he got back. He snorted softly, a sharp, bitter intake of breath. Get back! If he ever did.

Chief Chua and the rest of what had once—a lifetime ago, it seemed—been the engineering department of Federated Worlds Starship
Redwood
were the last to leave.

“Good luck, sir,” Petty Officer Morozov said. “After all we’ve been through, I feel bad we won’t be there.”

“Don’t,” Michael said firmly. “I’ve asked far too much of you guys already. It’s up to me now.”

“That’s a crock, sir,” Chief Chua said, “an absolute crock.”

“And you know it,” Chief Fodor and Petty Officer Lim added, as one.

Michael could not suppress a grin. These four senior spacers had every right to take him to task for the fact they were now trapped on the Hammer’s home planet with only the slenderest chance of ever getting back to the Federated Worlds. But not once had there been even the slightest hint of criticism. The opposite: Without exception, the attitude of the Gladiator Survivors Club was one of acceptance underpinned by a dogged determination to see things through.

“Insubordinate rabble,” he said. “Anyway, it’s a fact. Lieutenant Sedova assures me that
Hell Bent
can manage without your services, so here you’ll stay, and I can’t say I’m sorry about that.”

“Only to save weight,” Fodor said. “Our competence had nothing to do with it. Though what I know about lander systems is not worth knowing.”

“Speak for yourself, Chief,” Morozov said. “I made a damn good loadmaster.”

“Enough, people,” Chief Chua said firmly. “We have microfabs to look after; the little bastards do not like being left to their own devices. Good luck, sir.”

“Thanks, everyone.”

With a chorus of “good lucks” the engineers left, and then the canteen was empty. Michael was alone for the first time in
weeks. Tired to the point of exhaustion, he was happy not to have to talk to anyone; truth be told, he was talked out.

He sat back, rubbing eyes gritty with fatigue; if he thought he could sleep, he’d find an empty bunk and crash. But he knew sleep would not come, so instead he sat, staring at the rock wall in front of him, the months since Hartspring’s message had torn his world apart racing through his mind: people, events, decisions, consequences, all tearing past in a jumbled, rushing procession.

Suddenly it struck him, and hard, just how much things had changed. True, some things hadn’t: his love for Anna and his deep and bitter hatred of DocSec, to mention only two. But most of all, he had changed; he was no longer the man who had been appointed in command of
Redwood
. That man was long gone, ground into dust by the endless struggle to defeat the Hammers, recycled into somebody new.