The Final Battle

by Graham Sharp Paul

  “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 guard
s. “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.

  • • •

  Michael emerged from the shuttle into a hellish night.

  The wind drove thick flurries of snow into his face. The cold was intense. It sliced through his prison jumpsuit; his eyes watered with icy tears. Captain Pillai and his team escorted him to where a mobibot waited on the floodlit apron. So this is where my life ends, Michael thought as he was led into the welcome warmth of the vehicle.

  With a lurch, the mobibot set off. A few minutes later, it stopped, and Michael was fed into the Farrisport machine, the latest in a long line of prisoners that stretched back to the earliest days of the Federation.

  An hour later, the machine was satisfied that Michael was who he was supposed to be. Deep scanned for contraband, checked for disease and injury, and dressed in a new jumpsuit, he was spit out by the machine into a cell no different from the one he had left behind. He dropped onto the bunk, tired beyond belief.

  “You have a visitor,” the intercom announced. “Stand up and wait back from the door.”

  With a huge effort, Michael got to his feet. The door opened, and a prison service colonel, iron-gray hair cut short above a comfortable round face, stepped in. Her crisp blue uniform was stark against the white sterility of the cell. “I’m Colonel Kallewi,” she said. She waved the guards out. “I’m the superintendent of Farrisport Island Prison.”

  “Wish I could say it was good to meet you, sir,” Michael said with a fleeting lopsided smile. Then it hit him hard enough to make his heart pound. “Forgive me,” he went on, “but Kallewi? Are you any relation to the commander of my marine detachment in Redwood?”

  “Yes, I am,” Kallewi said, her voice soft. “Janos was my son.”

  Michael’s stomach turned over. This he had not expected. “You’ve heard … you know?”

  “I received notification that he’d been killed in action, yes.”

  “I was his captain,” Michael said. Kallewi’s dignity in her grief made his guilt all the worse. “I was responsible for his being on Commitment. It was … I’m so sorry.”

  Kallewi said nothing for a moment. “Don’t be,” she said finally. “I won’t say his death has been easy to bear. It hasn’t, but Janos was his own man, and he made his own decisions. And he died doing his duty the best way he could, and I won’t stand here and tell you or anyone else that he was wrong about that. But I would like to know more of what happened. It would help me and his father.”

  “Of course.”

  “Tonight at 20:00 if that’s okay.”

  “I don’t think I’m going anywhere,” Michael said with a crooked smile.

  “Not sure about that.”

  Michael stared at the woman. What on earth does she mean by that? he asked himself.

  Kallewi took a deep breath before continuing. “Now, back to bu
siness,” she said. “There’ll be a full briefing for you at 09:00 tomorrow morning on the execution protocol—” Michael flinched; he couldn’t help himself. “—and your parents will be arriving at 12:00. You can see them for as long and as often as you wish, though their last visit will have to finish no later than 02:00 on the day.”

  Six hours, Michael thought. I will be utterly alone for the last six hours of my life.

  “That’s all for now,” Kallewi went on. “Any questions?”

  “None worth asking.”

  “Okay. I will see you later.”

  “Sir.”

  • • •

  “Sit,” Kallewi said, waving Michael into a seat across a small metal table from her. “Can I call you Michael?” she went on once his escort had left.

  “Of course, sir,” Michael replied. He was both embarrassed and surprised by the question. In his experience, colonels, even prison service colonels, weren’t on first-name terms with junior officers.

  “Bear with me a second,” Kallewi said. She placed a small silver cube on the table.

  Michael stared at the cube to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. He wasn’t. He was looking at a near-field jammer; there would be no digital record of anything said or done in this room. Michael did not know much about prison service regulations, but he would have bet what little was left of his life that the device had no business inside Farrisport. “Colonel, forgive me,” he said, “but what’s going on? I’m pretty sure this thing—” He pointed at the cube. “—is not allowed in here.”

  “You’d be right.”

  “So what’s happening? Please, I need to know. I can’t … I can’t …” Michael had to stop to recover his self-control. “This might surprise you,” he went on, “but I’ve had it. I just want this to be over.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what you’re going through, so let me get to the point.”