“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. We have docked, and you may now disembark. We trust you had a good trip. We look forward to seeing you all again on board soon.”
Not a chance, pal, Michael said to himself, not a chance in hell.
He and Shinoda hung back. Around them, excited Hammers, voices raised at the prospect of shaking off the petty repressions inflicted on them back home, poured off the Councillor Vladimir Spassky straight into the milling line piling up at immigration control. But even there they were not out of the Hammer’s reach. Officially, Scobie’s World was an independent, sovereign system, a fiction cruelly exposed by the DocSec trooper sitting behind the clerks processing the new arrivals.
Michael shivered at the sight of the hated black uniform. He knew as well as anyone that it took a delicate balancing act to maintain Scobie’s independence. On the one hand, Scobie’s World tried extremely hard not to upset the Hammer. On the other hand, it tried equally hard not to be classed as a Hammer vassal system with all the economic restrictions that would bring. But in the end, most of what Scobie’s World did was on the Hammer’s terms, and one of those terms was ceding de facto control to DocSec over everyone arriving on or leaving the place. That was not surprising. The Hammer was well aware that many of its citizens would never return home given the chance.
The line began to shrink. The time had come for Mr. and Mrs. Benoit to disappear.
Michael and Shinoda, waved through immigration without incident, took the first shuttle heading dirtside for the capital of Scobie’s World, New Dublin. Once they had passed through the spaceport, a mobibot took them into town and dropped them off right in the heart of the city. New Dublin’s mixture of the garish and the shabby was expertly tailored to the Hammer tourists who infested every souvenir shop, every wedding chapel—Doctrine of Kraa ceremonies a speciality—every bar, every casino, every strip club, every massage parlor, and every brothel. Michael shook his head in disbelief. How anyone with half a brain could enjoy a shithole like New Dublin was beyond him. He would be glad to get off-planet, and the sooner the better, even if it meant the end of his unplanned relationship with Marine Shinoda.
It took two more mobibots before Michael started to feel safe. “What do you think?” he asked.
Shinoda’s head had not stopped moving from the moment they had left the Councillor Vladimir Spassky, her neuronics working overtime to make sure the faces of the people they met did not reappear around the next corner, that the pattern of movement around them was that of Scobie’s Worlders going about their everyday business.
“Well,” she said, “I think it’s safe to say that I don’t think anyone is even the slightest bit interested in two Hammer tourists wandering around this back-blocks shithole.”
Shinoda grinned as Michael folded her into a fierce bear hug.
“God, I hope so,” he whispered into her ear.
Shinoda laughed. “Put me down, sailor. Come on. We’ve got work to do. This way.”
Michael followed Shinoda past endless giant holovid screens pulsing with light and color. He shook his head. From what he could see, nothing was off-limits. If it could be bought, someone on Scobie’s World would sell it to you. Shinoda made a quick final check as they turned down a narrow street. Michael winced as he laid eyes on their final destination. Crass did not even begin to describe it. Twenty meters from the corner was the Leprechaun’s Retreat Irish Bar and Restaurant, its exterior festooned with enough virulently green shamrocks and gold harps to leave even the dumbest Hammer in no doubt that this place was a genuine Irish bar.
Michael and Shinoda plunged inside, the noise deafening as a small band struggled to be heard over the determined efforts of hundreds of Hammers to have a good time, an exercise that largely appeared to mean getting blind drunk in the shortest possible time. There, toward the back, was what they had come so far to find: a small, disheveled, and extremely drunk Hammer doing a bad job of singing along with the band.
Michael flicked a glance at Shinoda. She nodded. The logo on the T-shirt—an obscene cartoon of a pig doing something unspeakable with a large cucumber—identified him as the man who would give them the new identities and clothes they needed to get off-planet.
Twenty minutes later, Michael and Shinoda were in a mobibot on their way back to the spaceport.
Michael sat silently, savoring the wonderful feeling of connectedness that enveloped him as he let his neuronics hook into the net. He had been out of touch for a long time, and even if he could not talk to the AI-generated personal agent who managed the routine details of his life, it was good to be able to find out what was going on in humanspace without having to watch the turgid bullshit that passed for a Hammer newsvid.
The news was not good.
The Hammers clearly were having some success with their campaign against Fed merchant shipping. From the look of it, Fleet was having a hard time coping with hit-and-run attacks that had spread right across humanspace. The government was paying the price; most commentators were confident in their predictions that the New Liberal government of Moderator Burkhardt was finished.
Michael stopped scanning after a while. It did not make sense, any of it. He could not even begin to understand why the Hammers were doing what they were doing. The elaborate scheme they had concocted was unraveling badly. When the Fed government saw his neuronics records, the Hammer’s days had to be numbered. After the Mumtaz affair, the government would rip the heart out of the Hammers and nail it, bleeding, to the nearest wall.
He smiled, a smile utterly devoid of charity, the smile of a man watching his bitterest enemy swing on the end of a rope. Well, if it came to that, he would be there. That was for sure. He was in the mood to rip out a Hammer heart or two.
“Spacer Torrens, Spacer McArthur. Returning to the FedWorld Courier Ship Spacerunner.”
Michael’s mouth was bone-dry. He could not help it. This was the tricky bit. Hacking into the Hammer’s knowledge base to create false identities for him and Shinoda was one thing. Hacking into Scobie’s immigration control systems was quite another, not least because unlike the Hammers, they would use purpose-built security AIs to manage their system audits. In theory, that should make a successful hack next to impossible, though if that had been the case, he and Shinoda would not be standing there. Michael could only hope that the unknown hackers had done a proper job. Fingers crossed, he stood waiting.
“Comm me your entry permits and full identities. Finger in the scanner for DNA matching.” The immigration officer did not bother to conceal his lack of interest. Nor, to Michael’s relief, did the inevitable DocSec watchdog.
Michael and Shinoda did as they were told. An anxious pause followed as they waited for the system to confirm that they were legitimate crew members of the Spacerunner.
With a flick of the wrist, the officer commed them the clearances they needed. He waved them through. Ignoring a sudden desperate urge to break into a run, Michael walked into the access tube.
Then he was through Spacerunner’s air lock and back on sovereign FedWorld territory. He got only another meter before his attempt to confirm his identity to the ship’s staff crumbled to dust. All of a sudden, it all became too much, the accumulated stress of the past months driving him onto his knees.
He was safe.
“Feeling better?” the Spacerunner’s doctor asked.
Michael nodded. He certainly was. His body never missed an opportunity to remind him of some old injury or other, and deep down inside he was far from all right, but as long as he did not think too much, he felt pretty good. He had slept well, breakfast had been as good as anything the first-class restaurant on the liner served, and the young doctor standing in front of him was no more a commercial spacer than he was. She was FedWorld Space Fleet from her regulation haircut right down to her fleet-issue boots, and Michael felt all the better for it.
The doctor smiled. “Good. Now, I have some people who have been on my back from the moment you arrived on board. T
hey want to talk to you. You okay with that? Because if you’re not, they can wait.”
Michael shook his head. No matter how much he wanted to forget the past, he had to tell the debriefing team everything he knew—good and bad—if he was ever to come to terms with what he had done, what he had been through.
“No, no. I’m fine. Where do they want me?”
“Conference 2. Ship’s AI will show you the way. You can contact me any time if you need a break. Got that? Call me any time at all, and I’ll put a stop to it.”
Michael nodded as he got to his feet. “Thanks.”
The doctor took his arm. “Michael.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t let them push you around. When you’ve had enough, you call me. Is that understood?”
Michael bobbed his head. She would never understand that he wanted to unburden himself, and now.
The doctor watched Michael as he made his way out of the sick bay. She shook her head as she began her draft report to Fleet’s surgeon in chief.
Sunday, January 16, 2400, UD
Federated Worlds Courier Ship Spacerunner, pinchspace
“Thank you, Michael. You’ve been most helpful. You understand how sensitive this all is, so I’m going to put a neuronics block on it for the moment. Once the Hammer’s part in all this is in the public domain, then it’ll be lifted. Until then, I’ve classified it as top secret—no foreign eyes. Okay?”
Michael nodded. “Fine by me, sir.” He had expected to face a Fleet debriefing team, but he was pretty sure that neither of the two men who had sat patiently listening to his account of what had happened since the Ishaq had been destroyed was Fleet. He thought they were spooks, Department 24 most likely.
“Okay. That’s it. We’ll be dropping soon, so you can go and get ready for that bit of fun and games.”
“Thank you, sir.” Michael was gone in a flash.
The two men waited until the door hissed shut behind Michael. The older of the two got up and started to pace up and down. “What a bloody mess,” he said.
“More than a mess,” the second man replied. “I’m no lawyer, but the Barkersville police station attack is a problem. Legally, it’s murder. No argument.”
“I’m afraid it is. Anyway, that’s for someone else to sort out. I would hate to be the person who puts Helfort in the dock for murdering two Hammers, even if it was in cold blood. The great unwashed would have me hanging from a lamppost in no time flat. Christ! The pollies are going to shit themselves when this little mess comes home to roost.”
“They are, by God. You know what? I don’t think I would have done anything different.”
“Nor me. Bloody Hammers. Come on, enough navel gazing. We’ve got a report to write.”
Tuesday, January 18, 2400, UD
Base Hospital, Federated Worlds Space Fleet College, Terranova Planet
For some reason, Michael felt more nervous than the last time he had faced DocSec. He was so nervous, he could not stay still, standing up and then sitting down and then standing up again.
Finally the door opened. In quick succession, his mother, his father, and his sister Sam rushed into the room, and in seconds he was enveloped in all their arms, the tears running uncontrollably down all their faces.
“Christ, son, but you’re a worry,” his dad said when he had gotten himself back under control. “Any chance of your transferring to the Parks and Wildlife Service?”
Michael smiled tightly. He knew his dad would pressure him to leave the Fleet. Who could blame him? First the Mumtaz business, then the Battle of Hell’s Moons, and now all this. His dad should pressure him. Michael could see what it was doing to him. His father looked ten years older than he had when Michael had left to join the Ishaq.
“Dad, Mum, Sam, sit down. We need to talk.”
When his parents left, Michael sat down heavily. Things had not gone well. His parents had refused to see that his promise to Corporal Yazdi meant something, and Sam had agreed with them. Let someone else deal with the Hammer, she had cried. Why you? You’ve done enough.
For Michael, it was very simple. A promise to a fallen comrade was a promise that had to be kept.
And he had not begun to do enough. He had not even started. He had debts to collect, debts payable in blood, the blood of the Hammers responsible for the spacers killed on board DLS-387 during the Battle of Hell’s Moons, of the Hammers responsible for the spacers and marines killed when Ishaq blew, of the DocSec thugs who had nearly killed him, of the Hammers who had killed Corporal Yazdi.
Oh, yes. He would collect no matter what his family and friends argued.
Tomorrow the doctors would start repairing the physical damage the Hammers had done to his body. Three days of back-to-back operations, they had said. Then it would be the shrinks’ turn, though Michael had no intention of letting them anywhere near the flame of hate that burned deep within him. Nor would he let them see the part of him that wanted to give up completely, to let it all go, to find somewhere quiet, dark, safe. Maybe somewhere to end it all before the hate and fear and guilt drove him over the edge, chased every step of the way by the ghostly face of Detective Sergeant Kalkov, a face that pursued him through the twists and turns of every nightmare-filled night.
No, that was too easy.
He was physically scarred, but the shrinks would not see the emotional scars. He would not let them. They would assess him as mentally bruised but basically okay. He had no doubts of that. By the time he recovered, he would be passed A-1, fit for frontline Fleet service. When that happened, they could not stop his return to active duty. The day of reckoning for the Hammer was approaching fast, and he had every intention of being there when it came.
Saturday, January 22, 2400, UD
Base hospital, Federated Worlds Space Fleet College, Terranova
Michael struggled to sit upright in bed as a tall, lanky officer walked in, gold shoulder badges flashing in the light of the late afternoon sun.
“Afternoon, Helfort. Feeling okay?” the man asked cheerfully.
“Better, sir. Thanks.” It was not quite true. The doctors and their damn nanobots had spent a long time inside his body over the previous three days, and he had the aches and pains to prove it.
“Good. The doctors seem pleased. You’ve come through well, and they assure me that you will be one hundred percent physically by the end of next month. We need to talk. Let me close the door and grab a seat.”
When Michael’s visitor was settled, he looked Michael right in the eye.
“I’m Captain Vitharana, deputy Fleet advocate general.”
Michael nodded. “I know, sir. I remember you. Space College. Two lectures on the laws governing the conduct of war.”
“Ah.” Vitharana smiled. “Gripping stuff, no doubt.”
“Certainly was, sir. Every minute.”
“Well, I’m glad someone was awake.” Vitharana laughed. “As I recall, cadets can sleep with their eyes open, and most probably did. Anyway, we digress. I need to talk to you about Barkersville.”
Michael’s heart sank. He was not stupid. He had seen how the debriefing team had reacted when he had described what had happened that awful night. Since then, it had been nagging at him, the nightmares starring Detective Sergeant Kalkov making damn sure not a day went by without his reliving the moment when he had slid his knife into the man’s heart. He knew Kalkov’s death was wrong—completely and unforgivably wrong. So how would the powers that be see it? He had a sinking feeling that he was about to find out.
Michael took a deep breath. “I think we do, sir,” he said levelly. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Barkersville.”
“Well, Helfort, here’s the problem. We’ve looked in detail at your debriefing report as well as all the downloads you provided, and so has the attorney general.”
Michael’s eyebrows shot up. “The attorney general, sir?” Michael looked confused. What was she doing getting involved? Surely this was a Fleet matter.
�
��The attorney general, yes. Unlike your attack on Kraneveldt—well done, by the way—the Barkersville incident involved nonmilitary personnel outside the defense force chain of command. It falls to her to decide how the matter should be handled. So let me cut to the chase.” Vitharana took a deep breath. “The attorney general believes she has grounds to indict you for the murders of, of . . . now let me see. Ah, yes, a Detective Sergeant Kalkov, Commitment Planetary Police Service, and Trooper Askali, Hammer of Kraa Doctrinal Security Service.”
Michael lay there propped up on his pillows, a shocked look on his face, as Vitharana plowed on.
“So that’s what she thinks. Now, before you get too concerned, let me tell you what we think, and when I say ‘we,’ I mean everyone above me in the chain of command up as far as the president. It’s pretty simple, really. Irrespective of the merits of the attorney general’s views, Fleet cannot—will not—allow one of its officers to be tried for murders committed in the circumstances in which you found yourself. Which is fine, except Fleet cannot alter the facts of what happened. Nor can Fleet tell the attorney general what to do or what not to do. Legally, nobody can. Now, we have to find a way around this problem, and so I have a proposal for you to consider. I’m going to give you twenty-four hours to think it over. I’ll be back to talk to you tomorrow to see what you think. Understand?”
Michael nodded. “Sir!” What else could he say?
“Good. Now, here’s what we propose. In a nutshell, we intend to bypass the attorney general by petitioning the president to pardon you for the Barkersville matter. If she grants the pardon, the attorney general can proceed with the indictment if she wishes. But if she did get the matter into court, you would enter a plea of pardon, and provided of course the pardon was valid—and let me assure you, Helfort, it most certainly will be—then the court would have no alternative but to throw the matter out on its ear, so to speak.”
The Battle of the Hammer Worlds Page 23
