The corporal put his mouth to Michael’s ear. “Now, Helfort, let me explain something,” he hissed. “We don’t give a fuck whether you live or die. So do as you are told and don’t talk until you’re ordered to. Got it?”
Michael could barely speak, the pain was so intense. “Yes,” he mumbled, fresh blood frothing up into small bubbles across his battered mouth. “Understood.”
“Good. Right, Helfort. I’ve got good news. You’re going dirtside. There are some people who really, really want to talk to you.”
Michael did not much care anymore. They could put him in lead boots and drop him into thirty meters of liquid pig shit for all he cared right now. Dripping blood, he was half dragged, half pushed along yet more corridors, down two levels in a drop tube, and along another set of corridors until finally they got to a lander for transfer dirtside. He had screamed with pain most of the way as his tortured body was driven into every hard projection they passed. The troopers’ only response had been to backhand him again and tell him to shut the fuck up before smashing him into the next door frame they came to.
Dragged through what looked like a lander’s air lock, Michael was pulled down a short corridor and into a small compartment. He was thrown bodily onto a metal rack, his plasticuffs quickly and efficiently replaced by a single plasfiber wrist strap secured to the lander’s hull. Then, with a parting slap to the head, the DocSec troopers left him alone.
Michael lay barely able to move, searching desperately for the last of the painkillers he had been given by the Hammer doctor. Digging them out, he swallowed them gratefully. When the pain finally started to subside, Michael had a look around through blood-gummed eyes. What he saw did nothing to improve his morale. The lander had been stripped down to absolute basics. There were no seats, only openmeshed metal racks layered deck to deckhead, one of which he now occupied. Frankly, he did not much care. Being left alone was more than enough for him.
Bit by bit the pain receded. Encouraged, Michael experimented. He could move, but not without protest from his badly battered body. He resigned himself to an uncomfortable trip dirtside.
He made a promise to himself: He was going to get out of this one way or another. He had no idea how, but he was not going to give up. Buoyed by his new resolve, he waited until shock and tiredness started to push him under. He made himself as comfortable as the metal rack and limited headroom allowed and did his best to sleep.
He had almost succeeded when, with no warning, the lander unberthed to start its long drop down the gravity well to the planet below. Which planet, he had absolutely no idea. The DocSec pilot clearly did not care too much for his passengers, and the entire journey down seemed designed to make life as miserable as possible, every maneuver so violent that Michael began to wonder how the lander’s airframe could take such abuse. To Michael’s relief, the lander finally thumped down, but with such casual violence that his aching head was whipped from side to side. He could not wait to get off. The brutal trip had made him lose his breakfast, but at least he now understood why the inside of the lander was bare metal. It was obvious, really; it made hosing it out that much easier. God knew what it must be like with a full complement of prisoners. He could only hope that he would never have to find out.
The moment the lander came to a halt, bobbing on its landing gear, the two troopers were back, seemingly unaffected by the state of the compartment Michael had been held in and apparently untroubled by the rough trip dirtside. Unstrapped, pulled unceremoniously down from his rack, he was half carried, half dragged off the lander and down the ramp into the hot, humid air of what looked like early evening. Michael had only a few seconds to look around before he was bundled carelessly into the back of a small van with blacked-out windows and plasticuffed to the seat frame. The whole routine was as cruelly rough as before, to the point where Michael began to think—when he could think between bouts of agonizing pain—that inflicting pain had to be a trade skill taught wherever DocSec troopers were trained to be the vicious thugs they all obviously were.
Two hours and two more rounds of gratuitous brutality later, Michael was thrown bodily into a small cell. A single small window set high in one wall lighted the bleak plascrete box; the light recessed into the ceiling was off. Michael sat looking up at plasglass-filtered sunlight dappling one wall of the cell an orange-red. Suddenly, it was all too much, and he began to cry. He could not stop, his tears washing tracks down through the dried blood caking his face.
He had never felt so alone in all his life.
Sunday, September 12, 2399, UD
Chief Councillor’s residence, city of McNair, Commitment
Fleet Admiral Jorge stood unmoving as Chief Councillor Polk’s rage washed over him, the relentless torrent of invective like nothing he had ever been subjected to before.
“Sir!” he said, rather more firmly than he had intended—a lot more firmly, in fact.
Polk stopped dead, staring at Jorge, his face an angry red mask.
“Sir,” Jorge continued gently. “What’s done is done. Can I remind you that it is a long time since any Hammer ship took on and beat a Fed heavy cruiser? In fact, sir”—Jorge was warming to his task now—“I will be submitting a recommendation that Commodore Monroe be awarded the Star of Kraa for his leadership of Operation Cavalcade to date. I will also—”
Polk’s hand went up. Polk stared at him for a long time. To Jorge’s surprise, the man smiled for an instant. Then, to Jorge’s utter astonishment, the bloody man was laughing, his chest heaving until tears began to run down his cheeks.
“By Kraa, Admiral, you really are something else,” Polk sputtered finally, getting himself back under control with an obvious effort, wiping the tears from his eyes. He shook his head in disbelief. “You are unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. I wanted to have the bloody man shot. Kraa’s blood, I wanted to have you shot, too, but no! You want me to give him a medal! Not any old medal, either. Oh, no. You want me to give him the Star of Kraa, no less!” Polk’s voice rose in disbelief. He took a deep breath and waved a hand at Jorge. “For Kraa’s sake, sit down, Admiral. Sit,” he said resignedly.
“Thank you, sir.” Jorge sat, praying as hard as he could that the storm was over.
“So if I accept your proposition that Monroe did the right thing,” Polk went on, to Jorge’s relief sounding much more relaxed, “then what the hell am I going to do with Kraa knows how many damn Fed spacers? I don’t suppose you’ll let me have DocSec shoot them?” Polk asked hopefully.
“Sir, we have that under control, and”—Jorge’s voice hardened noticeably—“with all due respect, having them shot by DocSec is not a good option. On behalf of Fleet, I must point out that our spacers get captured, too. If the Feds find out we have shot almost three hundred of theirs—and they will—then . . . well, let’s just say it makes things very difficult all around.” Not to mention the fact that the Feds will pursue me to the ends of humanspace and beyond, he thought despairingly.
Polk stared at Jorge bleakly, all traces of good humor gone. “You know, Admiral, I don’t think I will ever understand spacers. Kraa! The things you get worked up about! I really don’t give a rat’s ass what the Feds do to Hammer prisoners of war.” Polk snorted dismissively. “The cowardly losers should not have let themselves be captured in the first place. They’re no damn good to us anymore, that’s for sure, so the Feds can make meat pies out of them for all I care.”
The look on Jorge’s face—a mixture of horror and disgust—stopped Polk dead. “All right, Admiral, all right. I’ll let this one go,” he conceded reluctantly. “I know these things matter to you, but I’m sure I don’t have to warn you what happens if the Feds find out about Cavalcade before we decide to let them in on the secret.”
“No, sir,” Jorge agreed stiffly, trying extremely hard to keep the relief out of his voice, “you don’t.”
“Good. Let’s get on with it. So, these Feds. If I can’t have them shot, what in Kraa’s name are you going to do with
them?”
“That problem’s been solved, sir. They’re in transit to one of Fleet’s old camps from the last war, the most remote my staff could find, on Maranzika. Nobody will know they even exist. The camp is so remote that escape is pointless, I have imposed a complete communications blackout, and an air exclusion zone is now in force around the camp. Supply and security have been taken over by Operation Cavalcade personnel, so operational security will not be compromised.”
Jorge held his breath. Polk had to be reassured that Cavalcade operational security really was safe; if Polk was not, he was dead. After a lifetime’s thought, Polk nodded his head.
Jorge breathed out slowly—the man did not look happy, but then again, neither was he tearing his head off, so maybe he had gotten away with it—before continuing. “There is one exception, though, sir. One of the Feds is an officer called Helfort, Michael Helfort.”
Polk looked puzzled “Helfort? Who the hell is Helfort? Remind me.”
“Well, sir. According to the Feds, he’s one of the heroes of what they like to call the Battle of Hell’s Moons. Quite a celebrity, I understand.”
Polk scowled. “Ah, yes. Helfort. A smug little man. I remember him now. Bloody Feds. What about him?”
“DocSec’s Section 22 has him in custody. They think he might be useful. He might be, er, well, persuaded to put a different spin on the Mumtaz affair.” Jorge did his best to keep a straight face; privately, he thought DocSec had lost the plot, but if they wanted Helfort, he was happy to oblige. But there were some things he did not want Polk finding out about; the fact that he had horse-traded Helfort to DocSec in exchange for the right to keep the rest of the Feds under Fleet control was one of them.
Polk grunted derisively. “Admiral, why in Kraa’s name would I care? The Mumtaz affair is history. If DocSec wants to play with him, that’s fine by me. At least Section 22 can be trusted to keep their mouths shut.”
Jorge nodded. Polk was right. By Kraa! If there was one thing DocSec was really good at, it was keeping secrets, and Section 22—the section responsible for VIPs—was the best.
“So,” Polk continued, “whatever. Have DocSec brief me if anything of value comes up. That’ll be all, Admiral. You can go.”
Monday, September 13, 2399, UD
Secure Interrogation Facility Bravo-6, Commitment
Michael awoke with a start as the door to his cell crashed open with a bang. He had fallen asleep where he had been sitting and was stiff and sore. Sometime during the night he had toppled over without waking up, ending up curled into a fetal ball on the cold plascrete floor.
Oh, no, Michael thought as he looked up through sleep-fogged eyes still clogged with blood, cringing away from the black-uniformed figure towering over him. Not another beating. Please, God, not another beating. He was not sure he could take much more of this.
“Hello, Helfort. I’m Colonel Erwin Hartspring, Section 22, Doctrinal Security Service,” the man declared pleasantly, tapping his thigh with what looked like a short riding crop held in his left hand.
The man was tall, his body lean, muscles whipcord taut under an immaculately pressed tight black uniform with woven silver badges and a small row of medal ribbons on the left breast. His face was long and gaunt, with wrinkle-cut skin stretched tight over prominent cheekbones, windburned to a reddish-brown and sharpened by a straight nose dropping to a fine pencil mustache above thin, bloodless lips. His hair was cut down to a fine black stubble. It was the man’s eyes that made Michael’s heart sink. They were a pale, washed-out amber. They looked empty, pitiless. They were the eyes of a man who had seen too much to care about the battered, blood-soaked body at his feet. The man was a trashpress parody of a cold-blooded killer.
Michael shivered.
Hartspring leaned forward, the better to look at Michael, poking him with his riding crop. He winced, nose wrinkling in disgust.
“Oh, dear!” The man stepped back. “You are a bit of a mess, and to say you smell bad is an understatement. Really,” he added conversationally, “I keep telling my troopers to be more careful, but you know what?” Michael looked up at him suspiciously.
Hartspring paused.
Michael was obviously supposed to answer, so he shook his head. “No, sir,” he mumbled.
“I tell them, Michael, not to damage the goods, but you know what? I don’t think they listen to me.” He shook his head in mock despair. “Very coarse people, you know, these DocSec troopers. Most of them are not very bright and much too fond of the sight of blood for my liking. Other people’s blood, of course. They hate seeing their own. Oh, well, can’t be helped, I suppose.” He sighed in resignation.
He turned and shouted through the open cell door. “Sergeant!”
A well-built, powerfully muscled man a good head and a half shorter than Hartspring appeared in an instant. “Sir?”
“This is Sergeant Jacobsen, Helfort. Sergeant Jacobsen?”
“Sir?”
“Say good morning to Junior Lieutenant Helfort. He’s the hero of the Battle of Hell’s Moons, you know. If Fed holovids are to be believed.”
Jacobsen’s face was completely blank. He did not look at Michael. “Good morning, sir,” he barked at the far wall of the cell.
Hartspring smiled. “See how polite we can be, Helfort? Remember that, won’t you.”
He turned back to Jacobsen. “Now, Sergeant. This is what I want you to do. Doctor first. Tell that lazy scab-lifting son of a bitch that this is one of my Class A prisoners. Tell him that if I find that my very important Class A prisoner hasn’t been fixed up properly, then I’ll be fixing him up. Permanently. Got that?”
“Sir!” Jacobsen’s face was impassive.
“Good. When the doctor’s finished, take Helfort to Suite 517. I want him stripped, searched again, and then cleaned up. Bath, clean clothes, something to eat. You know the routine. When he’s done, give me a call.”
“Sir.”
With that, Colonel Hartspring was gone. Jacobsen reached down. Taking Michael by the collar of his tattered shipsuit, he lifted him effortlessly to his feet and bundled him out of the cell.
The whole business was completely unreal.
Without warning, Michael had risen from a living hell into a bizarre fantasy world, a world a million light-years away from the squalid brutality of plascrete cells and sullen thugs seemingly committed to making his every conscious minute a pain-filled nightmare.
In front of him were the remains of breakfast, probably the best Michael had ever enjoyed despite the pain eating involved. Michael, his appetite more than restored by the fact that some DocSec thug was not about to give him a good kicking, had demolished the spread as fast as his wrecked mouth and face would allow.
Comfortably bloated, he sat back. To all intents and purposes, he was in a luxury suite that would not have disgraced a five-star hotel. In fact, it was better than anything Michael had ever stayed in. Well, up to a point. The place was a luxury suite only if one ignored the fact that the door was plasteel and locked, the windows were plasglass and sealed, and his every move was watched by holocams covering every cubic centimeter of the suite. He could not even take a crap without being watched, for God’s sake. He laughed mirthlessly at the thought he might become a star of Hammer holovids. Michael Helfort takes a dump, now live on Channel 43!
Oh, and there was not a single thing in the whole apartment he could use to commit suicide. Nothing. He knew. He had looked everywhere.
Not that he planned to commit suicide, but it was always an option if things got too tough, he supposed. He could break out one of his escape kits, the one with the handy length of monofil line, but the thought of it slicing his head off if he tried to hang himself was more than he could bear. Worse, if he did, the Hammers would know about the kits, and that would screw things up big-time for everyone else. A sudden shiver ran up his spine. For all he knew, the Hammer had shot the rest of the Ishaqs out of hand. Maybe they were all in the lime pits. Maybe he was the last—
Michael forced himself to stop. Wondering what might have happened to the rest of the Ishaq’s crew would get him nowhere. He had done what little he could. What he should be thinking about now was himself.
Things were going to get tough again. He knew that. Michael was no fool. He knew what Colonel Hartspring was up to. He knew why Sergeant Jacobsen had been paraded in front of him. Good cop, bad cop. Soft man, hard man. Pampered one minute, beaten half to death the next. Michael shivered. It was all so clichéd; he knew exactly where this was all heading, and if he could not find a way out, he might end up so badly damaged that he would be better off dead.
Some Hammer genius had decided that he had something to offer. Clearly, the Hammers being the Hammers, they would do whatever it took to get what they wanted. That much was for sure.
He did not know if he could hold out long enough to convince them he would never, ever cooperate. Would they stop before they killed him in the process? Would they even care? Probably not, he suspected.
He shivered, the sudden rush of sour fear turning his stomach over and over and over as he bolted out of his chair. He just made it to the toilet, where he lost the breakfast he had enjoyed so much, his ribs screaming in pain as spasm after violent spasm racked his body. Jeez, he thought, slumping to the floor to recover, that was fun.
Cleaning himself up, Michael came out of the bathroom, and there he was. Colonel Hartspring stood silent in the middle of the room, a half smile on his face, riding crop in hand. Sergeant Jacobsen, face as inscrutable as ever, stood half a pace behind him and to one side.
“Not feeling too well, Michael?”
Michael stared for a second. Then he snapped. “Fuck you, Hartspring!” He did not stop to think, his body speaking for him, his system suddenly fear-charged with enough adrenaline to get across the gap to Hartspring in an instant. If he was lucky, he might rip the colonel’s eyes out before Sergeant Jacobsen beat him to death.
The Battle of the Hammer Worlds Page 12
