A small groan went up from those affected, Michael included. Yazdi and Murphy had been the rocks on which his team had been built. To lose his two marines now would be a real blow.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Fellsworth acknowledged patiently when the muttering died away. “I would not want to lose them either, but not crashing into a Hammer patrol is a higher priority. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. The recon patrol will leave four hours before dawn. They will check the route to Lake Schapp. If the Hammers are there, they’ll pull back, and we’ll have to sit and wait them out. If it’s clear, the plan remains unchanged, but we’ll go a day later. I’ll get you the precise departure schedules sometime today when we’ve had a look at the injury list. The most mobile sticks will leave first, cut down to the Gwyr River, turn downstream, and continue on to set up camp past Lake Schapp tomorrow night. Bivouac there two days before pushing on. Any questions?”
After a brief flurry of questions, none of any significance, the briefing broke up. Michael got to his feet, pleased that he would have an extra day to recover. A day’s break would be wonderful. He had not gotten far when Fellsworth waved him over.
Michael’s heart sank. He smelled a new assignment, and he would bet his life that it would not be counting the rations. Michael walked over to where Fellsworth was sitting.
“Job for you, Helfort. I want you and Corporal Yazdi to make for McNair. We need to get word to the embassy there that there are survivors. And before you ask why I chose you, it’s because you’re both small enough to pass for Hammers. A few weeks of half rations and a decent layer of dirt and they’ll never pick you out as Feds,” she said confidently.
“Fine, sir,” was all Michael could say in reply.
“Good. Now, find Yazdi, get a plan together, and brief me in . . . an hour’s time. Okay?”
Michael nodded. He shivered as he walked away to find Yazdi. It was easy for Fellsworth to be so sure; he wasn’t. Pushing on alone, just the two of them, against the most ruthless police state in all of human history, without money or identity cards, without the security and support the rest of the Ishaqs provided—all of that was bad enough.
But the thought of falling into DocSec’s hands again was a hundred times worse. It absolutely terrified him.
Wednesday, December 15, 2399, UD
Lower Gwyr Valley, Carolyn Ranges, Commitment
Michael woke from an uneasy half doze with a start. “What the mmmppphh!”
Corporal Yazdi’s hand was clamped firmly over his face. “We’ve arrived. Civilization,” she whispered into his ear.
Michael was awake in a heartbeat. Taking great care to stay under his tattered chromaflage poncho, he rolled over carefully to make sure their crude log raft did not capsize into the icy water of the Gwyr River.
“Where?” he hissed, scanning the darkness. He could not see a damn thing, only the black of a moonless Commitment night.
“Not that way,” Yazdi hissed. “Downstream.”
Despite the predawn gloom, it was obvious what Yazdi had seen. In the distance, a single white cottage stood close to the riverbank, a thin bar of warm yellow-gold light spilling from one window and smoke curling out of a squat chimney. The sight almost overwhelmed Michael. Inside would be food, warmth, clean clothes, sleep—all the things he craved after those terrible days hurtling down the Gwyr’s viciously rock-tipped rapids. Even when they were clear of the worst the river could throw at them, there were two nerve-wracking days spent negotiating marine positions set up across the Gwyr Valley where it debouched into the O’ksander Valley. Senses dulled by fatigue, hunger, and cold, they spent one long Commitment day holed up only thirty meters from a marine company; Michael and Yazdi had all but stumbled into the marines’ position before realizing their mistake, saved only by a sentry more interested in taking a piss than in doing his job. Unable to retreat, they had been trapped, the marines’ fire, their food, and their warm dry tents mental torture of the most exquisite sort. Eventually, the marines had broken camp and moved on, leaving only a few pathetic scraps of food for Michael and Yazdi to scavenge in a desperate attempt to keep their never-ending hunger at bay.
Then there had been the endless hours spent in the darkness drifting along, lying under their ponchos, invariably wet and cold, always tired and always hungry, until the eastern sky lightened with the promise of dawn and forced them to steer their awkward craft into the riverbank to hide until night fell again.
“So what do you think?” Michael muttered. “Go past or lay up?”
“Lay up, I think.”
Michael nodded. “I agree. If we get reasonably close, we may be able to pinch some food.” His mouth watered at the thought.
“We should be so lucky. Still, let’s hope. Come on. Let’s get ashore.”
Yet another long Commitment day later, Michael and Yazdi pushed the raft back into the water. The river was black and oily in the darkness.
It had been a bad day. Despite Michael’s best efforts, their prayers had not been answered. They had caught no fish, their rabbit traps were empty, and the occupants of the house had refused to cooperate by leaving long enough for Michael and Yazdi to ransack it.
Michael’s head dropped in despair. The raft drifted slowly past the cottage unseen, to the casual observer just a clump of branches drifting aimlessly in the current. Slowly, the cottage fell away behind them, and the riverbank reverted back to endless forest.
“Corp?”
“Sir?”
“We can’t go on like this much longer. We’ve got to get off this damn river before it drowns us or freezes us or we starve to death. Or all three at once,” Michael added with a grim laugh. “Now, I’ve had a look at the map, and there’s a small town coming up on our left. Baboushan; it’s an old mining town. We should dump the raft, and then do a bit of breaking and entering. I think we’re far enough away from the camp. They won’t make any connection between a break-in this far from the camp and the Ishaqs. And God knows, we can’t go on like this.”
“I agree.” Yazdi’s voice betrayed her exhaustion. Michael nodded. It had been a long, cold, dangerous ride down the Gwyr, and it could not go on much longer. They had to bite the bullet. They had to get off the river. If they stayed on the damned raft, they eventually would drift out to sea, and what was the good of that?
“Good,” Michael said. “Let’s do it.”
Michael could not contain himself. The smile on his face stretched into a broad grin, and then his head went back, his laughter almost hysterical in its intensity. Corporal Yazdi, freshly washed hair bundled up in a towel, looked at him like he was a madman. Then she lost it, too; the sheer joy of getting off the river and into somewhere warm was too much to bear.
“Fuck.” Michael finally got himself back under control, his face wet with tears of pure happiness.
“Thanks for the offer but no thanks,” Yazdi replied. That did it; they were off again, the isolated house outside Baboushan ringing with shouts of laughter.
“Oh, Christ,” Michael wheezed when he finally got himself under control. “I can’t do that too often.” He wiped the tears from his eyes. “My ribs don’t appreciate the joke.”
“Not surprised,” Yazdi said. “Right. I’m going to have another snoop around. Back in a tick.”
Michael nodded. They had eaten well but carefully; their stomachs were so shrunken that both had difficulty putting away even the meager amount of food Yazdi had scrounged from the house. The place obviously had been empty for a while, but Yazdi had found some canned soup, and the freezer had had bread in it. So soup and bread it would have to be. One thing was for sure; that was a damn sight better than an emaciated rabbit half cooked over a tiny fire.
Michael was still getting rid of the evidence of their visit when Yazdi came back, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Sir,” she called, “come and have a look.”
Michael followed her out into the darkness and around the side of the house. Fifty meters down a rough track was a ramshackl
e garage. Triumphantly, Yazdi flung open the doors to reveal a small truck, battered and well used. “You’re kidding.” Michael stared at the thing, wide-eyed. “Jesus! It’s an antique. Does it work?”
Yazdi shook her head. “Dunno yet. Only one way to find out.” Climbing in, she scratched around inside. Michael had a look in the back; it was empty. Judging by the smell, it was used for carrying timber, and not that long ago, either. They needed to get away, and soon.
Yazdi snorted. She had climbed out; the hood was up. She was staring into the engine compartment in disbelief. She leaned in and sniffed. She shook her head. “It’s diesel. Unbelievable. Should be in a museum.”
“I don’t care. If it moves, that’s all that matters. Can you start it?”
“Think so. Trusting lot around here.” Yazdi waved a key. “Let’s try this. Found it in the glove box. Might save me hotwiring it.”
Michael smiled. Yazdi was a woman with hidden talents. Climbing into the driver’s seat, she put the key in and turned it. After only the slightest hesitation, the little truck’s engine burst into life. Yazdi let it run for a minute and then turned it off. It sounded pretty healthy. There was an awkward silence. Michael and Yazdi looked at each other. With no money and no identity cards, their plan had always been to keep a very low profile until they lucked out and found a computer with access to the Hammer public net. Not much of a plan but good enough for Michael, not least because it kept the chances of being picked up by DocSec to an absolute minimum.
The truck had changed all that.
They could stick to their plan and leave the truck where it was, rusting slowly in its shed. Or they could roll the dice and use it to go north, to get as close as possible to McNair and the safety of the FedWorld embassy. And even if they did not make it to McNair, there had to be a computer he could get at somewhere along the way. He hoped. Michael sighed despairingly. To keep faith with Fellsworth, all he needed was twenty minutes, for God’s sake. Twenty minutes on a computer to tell the Fed embassy that close to three hundred spacers had survived the destruction of the Ishaq. But how best to do that? Keep the risk of capture to a minimum by working their way slowly north? Or jump in the truck and go for it, ignoring the risk of being stopped at a DocSec roadblock?
“So what do you think?” Yazdi asked softly.
Michael took a deep breath. He had to decide. They could not sit around forever while he agonized over what to do. He took another deep breath and made his decision.
“I’ll get our stuff,” he said quietly. “We’ll use the truck. So let’s get going. I’m sick of this creeping around shit.”
Yazdi looked relieved. “Couldn’t agree more. I’ll make sure I can drive the damn thing.”
Michael ducked back into the house. Picking up the two packs, he was making a final check to make sure they had not left anything incriminating when something made him look again at a cheap simwood-fronted cupboard.
Later, Michael cursed himself long and hard for not having been more inquisitive earlier. Finding food, warmth, and clean clothes had been enough to make him forget the mission Fellsworth had given him. The cheap cupboard he had ignored was not a cupboard at all. It was a door into a tiny office. There, sitting on a plain wooden desk surrounded by dusty papers, was the oldest computer he had ever seen.
His breath caught in his throat.
If it worked, if he could log on, if it was connected to the public net, if he could find the right public bulletin board—that was one hell of a lot of “if ”s, he thought—he could post the message, alerting the embassy that at least some of the Ishaqs had survived, had escaped from the Hammer, and were waiting to be rescued.
Thirty long, anxious minutes later, Michael sat back, sick with relief. He was done. He had found the website he needed, a public bulletin board for people with problem pets; lost animals was a popular thread. Bunch of sick comedians, those escape-and-evade planners, he decided as he keyed in the coded message for help and pressed the Submit button. For what seemed like an age, nothing happened. He was beginning to panic by the time he got confirmation that the post had been accepted. He shook his head as he logged off and shut down the computer. It was all so damn primitive. It was like being back in the Dark Ages. No wonder the Hammers were screwed if this was the level of technology they depended on.
He was finished. He had done what Fellsworth had sent him and Yazdi the best part of a thousand kilometers to do. It was up to the embassy now. There was nothing more he could do.
Making his way outside, he pulled the map of Commitment out of his neuronics. A quick search brought up Barkersville. That looked like a promising place. It was a small farming town, so stealing diesel for the truck should not be a problem, and the road in from Baboushan ran through open country with only a handful of tiny hamlets along the way. If DocSec or the local police were stopping traffic to run identity checks, maybe they would see the roadblock early enough to get away. Not much of a plan, he would have to say, but without money and without valid Hammer identity cards, it was probably the best they could do. Their original plan—to live rough while they worked their way north on foot to McNair in the hope that they could contact the FedWorld embassy and arrange a pickup—no longer appealed to him. It was too slow, too uncertain, and besides, he had debts to repay.
Yazdi looked up from her study of the truck’s engine as he approached. “Saw you found a computer. You’ve done it, haven’t you?”
“Sure have,” Michael said with a huge grin; he could not help himself.
Yazdi breathed out hard. “You have no idea how happy that makes me. Shit. Mission accomplished and all that. Jeez, Fellsworth would be pleased. Wish we could tell her.”
“Yeah. I wish we could.” Michael stopped for a moment; he hoped the Ishaqs were okay. “Anyway, I’ve been doing some thinking.”
“What we do next?”
“Yes. Here’s how I see it. We’ve done what Fellsworth sent us to do, and there’s nothing more we can do to help the Ishaqs. They’re on their own until the embassy gets our message and works out a way to pull them out. How the hell they are going to do that, I have no idea. I wish we could do more, but there’s nothing we can do.”
Yazdi nodded but said nothing.
“Well, nothing directly,” Michael continued. “But indirectly, there is a lot we can do.”
Yazdi looked up, her face suddenly alive.
Michael smiled. “Thought that might get your attention. It seems to me that creating a bit of confusion, a bit of mayhem, here and there will do a lot to divert the Hammers’ attention from our people. It’s a long shot, but apart from hiding in the bushes, what else can we do?”
There was a long pause as Yazdi thought about that. She nodded. “I agree. It’s simple, really. Sit around or do something to hurt the Hammers. If that takes some of the heat off the Ishaqs, even better.”
“Exactly. Now, pull up the map. I think Barkersville should be our first port of call.”
The thought of action had transformed Yazdi. She looked positively cheerful as she gunned the battered truck down the long road leading away from the isolated house. Michael smiled. Of course Yazdi looked cheerful. Mayhem was her business, and there was every chance she would be back in business before much longer.
He smiled grimly as the truck turned north onto the main Barkersville highway. Yazdi was humming softly to herself as the truck built up speed.
Michael settled down to get some sleep. The Hammers had had their turn. Now it was his, and he was going to do his level best to make them regret going anywhere near the Ishaq.
Thursday, December 16, 2399, UD
Federated Worlds Embassy, city of McNair, Commitment
Insistent chiming announced an incoming priority comm; it dragged Amos Bichel out of the blackness of sleep. The man responsible for FedWorld field intelligence and covert operations on the Hammer Worlds shook himself awake. Head more or less clear, he answered the comm.
Seconds later he was out of bed,
pulling his clothes on with frantic urgency, ignoring sleepy complaints from his wife. No matter how hard he tried, he simply could not believe what he had just been told. He shook his head in disbelief. Survivors from the Ishaq? Unbelievable. What on earth would the Hammers do next? They must have a death wish because one thing was for sure: The brown stuff was really going to hit the fan now.
He commed the duty officer back.
“Marty! Are you sure about this?”
The duty officer’s voice left no room for doubt. “Boss, I’ve been through it ten times,” he explained patiently. “It’s clear as day. There are survivors from the Ishaq, and they’re here on Commitment.”
“How did they get the message out?”
“Followed standard operating procedures. An officer called Helfort did the job. Posted a message on a public bulletin board, using one of our accounts. We check regularly in case there’s anything, but this is a first, I have to say.”
“Right. I’ll be over in five. We’ll go through it one last time to be one hundred and ten percent sure. Then I’ll call the ambassador. Jesus! I don’t think he’s going to be too happy about all this.”
Friday, December 17, 2399, UD
Town of Barkersville, Commitment
“Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be, sir,” Yazdi replied, her voice betraying a barely controlled mix of excitement and nerves. She held up the knife she had stolen from the house, its edge honed razor-sharp after hours of effort. “Let’s get it on.”
Michael held up his knife and put on a voice laced with solemn pomposity. “Right. By the powers vested in me, blah, blah, blah, I hereby declare war on all Hammer fuckpigs who get in our way. Let’s go.”
Yazdi carefully engaged the clutch and rolled the truck out of the small copse in which they had been hiding. Slowly, she drove down the lane into the outskirts of Barkersville. If it had been quiet when they had driven through the day before, it was completely dead now; the entire town was in bed, asleep, they hoped, despite the fact that it was broad daylight. Yazdi slowed the truck to a stop on a side street one block short of a grim one-story plascrete building and parked in the shadows. Michael had a good look around, pleased to see that there was not another living soul in sight. No surveillance holocams either.
The Battle of the Hammer Worlds Page 17
