Authors: Graham Sharp Paul
Anna reappeared. Michael’s breath caught in his throat at the sight. The image was so real, he felt as if he could reach out and touch the woman he loved. Assault rifle in one hand, she was dressed in well-worn
NRA
combat fatigues. Wayward wisps of fine black hair peeked out from beneath her helmet to hang down over honey-dark skin smeared with dirt. She stood in front of a group of
NRA
troopers—
She’s doing
a briefing
, Michael realized—and her deep green eyes blazed as her right hand stabbed out to make a point. It broke Michael’s heart to see her, to know how badly he had betrayed her, to know he would never hold her close again, to know she would live while he died.
The picture faded.
“I have to say,” Polk went on when he returned, “your Anna is a very beautiful woman. And in case you were interested, one of our agents took that picture last week at a briefing before the 120th attacked one of our planetary defense firebases. One of their more successful operations, I’m sorry to say, and before you ask, she came through without a scratch. As you’ve worked out by now, my agent in H Company keeps me very well informed. Now it’s time for you to meet an old friend. Colonel?”
Michael flinched when Erwin Hartspring appeared. The man terrified him still. The DocSec colonel had been pressed from the same mold as Polk. His face was long and gaunt, his skin wrinkle-cut, stretched tight over prominent cheekbones and windburned to a reddish brown. A long, straight nose dropped to a fine pencil mustache above thin bloodless lips. His hair was cropped to jet-black stubble.
“Hello, Michael,” Hartspring said, slapping the palm of his left hand with a riding crop. Michael had never forgotten the short length of cane covered with black leather. “I’m sure you remember me,” the man went on. “I mean …”
And you would be right, you psychopath,
Michael thought, his hand feeling for where Hartspring’s crop had slashed his face open.
“… how could you forget after all we’ve been through together? Now, the chief councillor has asked me to put together a dedicated unit to hunt down and capture Anna. Team Victor, we’ve called it—v for ‘vengeance,’ in case you were wondering—and it will be under my command. Its members will be special forces marines; that gives you some idea of how seriously we are taking this. When Team Victor captures Anna, she will be handed her over to a handpicked team of DocSec …” Hartspring paused to let a smile of unalloyed evil stretch across his skull-like face. “Do I need to say any more?” he continued. “No, I don’t think I do. You can use your imagination to fill in the gaps. And don’t be in any doubt that we will capture her. Anna is here on Commitment, and you’re not, so it’s just a matter of time. We’ll do our best to get our hands on her before you are executed, but don’t worry. Even if we don’t, we will get her eventually. Well, I don’t think there’s anything more I need to say, so I will sign off now. I’m sure you won’t enjoy your last days, but Chief Councillor Polk and I will.”
Polk reappeared. “You can believe what Colonel Hartspring says,” he said, “if only because I will bring the full might and power of the Hammer Worlds to ensure that he succeeds. Goodbye, Michael.”
The holovid stopped; before Michael could do anything to prevent it, the words “File Deleted” appeared on the screen. “Goddammit,” he swore, jumping to his feet. “Now what the fuck do I do?”
That was the worst thing. There was nothing, not a damn thing, he could do, and he knew it. What Polk and Hartspring planned to do was the most exquisite torture imaginable. And the torture started now, and it would continue until the day he was taken out and killed.
If I ever get out of here
, he vowed,
I will hunt the pair of you down and kill you both
.
There was only problem: He had absolutely no idea how to win his freedom, and until he did, that promise was as empty as the rest of his life.
Friday, December 5, 2403, UD
Federal Supermax Prison, Foundation City, Terranova planet
Michael stared out of the plasglass window in his cell. It had been—he couldn’t be bothered to work it out exactly—months since his appeal had started its laborious journey through the courts, a process never designed to be fast and slowed further by the fact that the Federated Worlds had not executed anyone in living memory. To say those involved were being cautious was a serious understatement.
And every minute of every day, the same question ate away at his sanity: Had Polk and Hartspring succeeded? Time dragged past; not knowing the answer had stripped the life out of him. He was an empty shell, devoid of hope. All he did was exist, a man borne along by forces over which he had no control, forces utterly committed to his destruction.
He swore softly at the prospect of another day the same as the one before and the one before that, each new day dragging past with the same dreary predictability, grinding down what little of his humanity remained.
The anger that had sustained him through the early days, that had fueled his hope that there would be some way out of the trap laid for him by Admiral Jaruzelska’s betrayal, had long gone. Even the bitter mix of despair, frustration, and guilt that had followed had not lasted, leached away by the dreary monotony of living a life waiting for death.
Outside his cell, there was nothing new to look at: the same grassy exercise area secured by a double fence of razor wire 3 meters high topped with floodlights and surveillance holocams. Beyond lay more grass and yet more wire, a distant maglev line the only evidence that life went on in the real world.
At the best of times, Michael hated it. Today, it was a dismal sight after days of rain had drained from a leaden sky. It was so depressing that he wouldn’t have needed much encouragement to finish it all himself. Not that he could, of course; the never-ending surveillance made sure of that.
“You have a visitor,” the squawk box on the wall said. “Stand away from the door.”
Michael sighed and did as he’d been told. The door opened, and he was waved forward; surrounded by guards, he followed the familiar path down the corridor to the interview room, too dispirited to ask who had come to see him. “I really am a dead man walking,” he muttered under his breath. He managed a fleeting smile. Never was a cliché so true, because he might as well have been dead.
He hoped his parents hadn’t come to see him. The stress and uncertainty of the appeal process was tearing them both apart, and Michael knew that nothing he could say or do could help them. Their visits had become so difficult that he had asked them not to come anymore.
But occasionally there was one emotion that troubled him. He tried not to think about the future. Most of the time he succeeded. When he failed, the thought of waited for him was frightening, made worse because he knew what his death would do to those who loved him: his mom and dad and his sister, Sam. And more than any of those, there was Anna, still stuck on Commitment fighting the Hammers, something the people of the Federated Worlds were too gutless to do.
He could only hope that she was still alive, that she had not been taken by Hartspring.
The door to the interview room opened, and his lawyer walked in. He liked Erica Malvern, but her relentless energy was wearing, as was her unshakable confidence that Michael’s death sentence would be commuted.
“Morning, Michael,” Malvern said, a bright smile on her face as always.
“Erica. What’s happening?”
“I’ve just had word that the president has made her decision on your appeal for clemency, so we should know where we stand any time now.”
Gut-wrenching fear tore at Michael’s stomach. “No idea what the decision is?” he said, his voice a half-strangled croak.
“Sorry, no. By Federal law, the president’s decision must be given to you in writing. But hang in there; I’m sure President Diouf will do the right thing.”
“I was sure of that too once, but now …” His voice trailed off into silence. “So all we can do is wait,” he went on.
“I’m afraid so. We’ve done everything that we can.”
“What’s the trashpress saying?”
“Michael, Michael,” Malvern protested. “Don’t go there. You know the outcome they want, so why torture yourself?”
“Bastards,” Michael muttered. “When the Hammers take over, they’ll have a lot to answer for. What’s the view in Fleet?”
Malvern frowned. “That’s a tough one.”
“I know you can’t go around conducting opinion polls, Erica, but surely you have some feel.”
“Well, as best I can tell, the more senior the person, the more unhappy they are. They don’t like the concessions Moderator Ferrero has made to the Hammers. That damn peace treaty’s so very one-sided. And it’s no secret the Hammers are leaning hard on the government to have your sentence carried out.”
“I’m surprised Ferrero hasn’t just handed me over,” he said. “I know Chief Councillor Polk wants me in front of a DocSec firing squad almost as badly as he wants to be Emperor Jeremiah the First.”
The door behind Malvern opened. A guard stuck his head in. “Can I have a word, counselor?” he asked.
“Sure. Back in a second,” Malvern said as she slipped out.
“Okay,” Michael said. He wondered what was going on. Then it hit him, and hard: the president’s decision had arrived. “Please don’t let me down,” Michael whispered.
Malvern was gone a very long time; Michael’s nerves were a mess by the time she reappeared, a slim envelope in her hand. “Is that what I think it is?” he croaked.
“Yes. Come on!” Malvern shouted to the unseen guards. “Get this damn screen up.”
“Sorry, counselor,” a voice said. The screen opened a fraction, and Malvern slipped the envelope through the gap. Michael took it with hands slick with cold sweat.
“Michael,” Malvern said, her voice soft. “Open it.”
Michael shook his head. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Erica; I just can’t.”
“You want me to?”
“Not really,” Michael replied, misery splashed all across his face. “I don’t want to know.”
“You need to know. Pass it back.”
Michael did as he was told and watched Malvern tear the envelope open, his heart hammering in his chest with painful intensity. She scanned the letter and then looked up at him, the tears in her eyes sparkling in the harsh light. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice breaking. “The president has turned down your appeal for clemency. Sentence will be carried out one week from today.”
“No!” Michael hissed. “She can’t have. I trusted her.” He slumped back in his seat, and his head dropped into his hands. “I’ve been screwed.,” he said, his voice strengthening as anger pushed fear aside. “Admiral Jaruzelska … that fucking judge … and now Diouf. They’ve betrayed me, all of them. Goddamn the bastards all to hell.”
The silence that followed was a long one. Michael was the first to speak. “That’s it. It’s over,” he said, his voice flat, emotionless. “There’s nothing more you can do now, Erica, so you’d better go. But thanks for everything.”
“Oh, Michael,” Malvern whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“Just go, Erica.”
Malvern looked at him for a moment, nodded, and then was gone, leaving Michael alone. “Fuck them all,” he muttered. He wondered why he felt so strangely calm. He’d always done his duty as he saw it, and if that wasn’t good enough, then so be it. Even looking back, he would not change anything.
The door behind him opened. “Come on,” the guard said. “Let’s get you back.”
Michael nodded. “Sure, Sergeant Valek,” he said. Michael liked Valek; the man had always treated him with respect. With the nearly absolute power the guards had over him, he need not have.
“We’ve heard the news,” Valek said when they got to his cell. “I just wanted to say … how sorry we all are. It’s not right, and I know I speak for everyone in the corps.”
Michael shook his head, confused. So far as he knew, Sergeant Valek had never been anywhere near the marines. “The corps?” he said. “I don’t follow.”
“Both of my brothers are marines. We talk a lot. They’ve told me what you did for the guys at Devastation Reef.”
“That was a while ago.”
“I know it was, but they tell me that the corps does not forget. Anyway, I need to go. Captain Pillai will be along in an hour to talk to you.”
“Okay, and thanks. It helps.”
“Not as much as I’d like,” Valek said.
• • •
“Bad business,” Pillai said as he walked into the cell.
“You should see it from where I’m sitting.”
The man smiled and shook his head. “Before we get started,” Pillai went on, “I’d like to say that Sergeant Valek was right. And it’s not just the Marine Corps that’s pissed. I don’t know many people who agree with what’s happening. I don’t know what anyone else thinks, but I do know the Hammers are behind this.”
“Should you be saying that?” Michael said with a worried frown. “Everything’s recorded.”
“Let me worry about that,” Pillai said. “The powers that be have bigger problems on their plate right now.”
“They do?”
“Let me see … Yes, at last count, 372 marine officers have resigned their commissions to protest the president’s decision. And there are more from Space Fleet, apparently, though the news channels aren’t saying how many. But I bet they won’t be the last. If this government thinks it can get away with this, then they’re stupider than they look.”
Michael was shocked into silence; tears pricked at his eyes as emotion washed through him. This he had not expected. “What can I say?” he said. He wiped his eyes.
“You don’t need to say a thing. I just hope it helps.” Pillai took a deep breath. “Time for business, I’m afraid. You’ll leave for Farrisport in two days’ time. Once you are there, you will be briefed on what happens … you know …”
Michael did know; he’d thought of nothing else. He took a deep breath to steady himself. “What about visits? I want to see my folks.”
“We’ll arrange for them to fly to Farrisport. You’ll be able to spend as much time with them as you want, right up until the end.”
Sunday, December 7, 2403, UD
Foundation City, Terranova planet
Michael sat slumped in his seat, head back and eyes closed, as the suborbital shuttle carrying him and his ten-strong escort of heavily armed guards—talk about overkill, Michael had thought when they’d fallen in around him—rocketed down the runway and climbed away from Foundation City. The flight to Farrisport promised to be a long one. Michael tried to force himself to sleep, but sleep refused to come, the minutes dragging past second by miserable second.