then of course you will not object if the Council asks for your immediate resignation.”
Polk’s objection was immediate, the anger obvious as he half rose from his seat, face working with rage. “Chief Councillor! I-”
Merrick wasn’t having any of it. “Sit down, Councillor!’ he roared. “I am speaking. Sit down or by Kraa, you’ll regret it.”
Polk stayed half standing for a long time before slumping down back into his seat. Merrick watched him for a moment. He had to be careful now. He had the Council where he wanted them, but it would take only one of the neutral councillors to object and the game would be over. Time to quit while he was ahead.
“So, Councillor Marek, you might like to consider the conclusions of your next report carefully,” he said, his voice loaded with concern that Marek get it right. “Otherwise…”
Merrick didn’t have to say any more. There wasn’t a man present who did not know what happened to former councillors.
“Good, good,” Merrick said exuberantly, much like a man receiving unexpectedly good news. “Let’s move on, shall we. Ah, yes, Councillor Polk. Your report on industrial productivity, please.”
Merrick sat back as the last of the councillors filed out of the Council room. Dear Kraa, when will they ever learn? he thought as the headache that had lurked half-felt throughout the Council meeting suddenly blossomed into full flower, the pain hammering at his temples. Why was every meeting the same? Why was the blindingly obvious so hard for Polk and his crew of misbegotten whores to accept? Kraa’s blood! Each week they tap-danced around the simple fact that corruption was the core problem facing the Hammer and would destroy them all if they didn’t do something about it.
Still, Merrick consoled himself as he massaged his aching head, in the end he’d gotten some of what he’d wanted.
Herris had been summoned, his first step to a short encounter with a DocSec firing squad.
Marek had been put on notice, his first step to dismissal from the Council.
And Councillor Polk had been given a very rough time over the Hammer Worlds’ continuing problems with industrial productivity, allowing Merrick to remind him that the interests of the Hammer of Kraa would be much better served if he focused his attention on his own affairs rather than meddling in the business of other departments, intelligence, for example. Sadly, if he was honest, it was not much of a step to anywhere, but it was satisfying nonetheless.
Well, Polk was going to go on learning the hard way that Jesse Merrick was not a man to be fucked with. When the time was right, he had every intention of fashioning the miracle of Eternity into a very large blunt object that he would enjoy shoving right up Polk’s ass.
Giovanni Pecora’s neuronics chimed softly. With a quick apology to his dinner guests, he closed his eyes to take the comm.
It was the intelligence minister, Andres Suchapon. “Giovanni. Just thought I’d let you know. Department 24’s people on Commitment have had a result on the
Pecora was silent for a moment before he responded. Intelligence graded Alfa-2 was almost as good as it got. “Okay, Andres. Thanks. I guess we are marginally better off if the
Suchapon nodded sympathetically. The major risk of Operation Corona was not the loss of life on that day. It was what the Hammers might do in retaliation, and pinning the blame firmly on Merrick was key to limiting their response.
“We can only hope that it does, Giovanni. In any case, I don’t think it changes anything at this end. We must get our people back, and if the Hammer chooses to cut up rough afterward, so be it. We can take care of ourselves.”
“Right enough, Andres. Okay. Valerie’s up to speed?”
“She is. Not a happy woman. Anything else?”
“No, that’s it for tonight. I’ll see you on Monday.”
“You will. Night, Andres.”
“Night, Giovanni.”
Monday, September 21, 2398, UD
Prison Governor Costigan stood on the low catwalk above the milling group of orange coverall-suited prisoners.
The grim-looking man was flanked on either side by men in closely woven black stab-resistant one-piece plasfiber jumpsuits topped off with lightweight plasfiber close-combat helmets, also black. Hard faces devoid of even the slightest traces of emotion watched the mob over the barrels of crowd-control stun guns, eyes flickering restlessly behind closed plasglass faceplates.
One week, Costigan reflected. One week was all it had taken to turn proud independent human beings into meekly submissive convicts, feedstock for the driver mass mines and plants that were Hell System’s only reason to exist. The depersonalizing combination of numbers instead of names, convict haircuts, strip searches, confiscation of all personal possessions no matter how innocuous, cold, sleeplessness, hunger, and random acts of brutality, topped off with a cocktail of drugs that paralyzed the power of speech, never failed. And for the group below, there were two added shocks. The first was being dragged from the comfort and security of the
The guards on the holding cage floor finally got the group into a semblance of order, and Costigan stepped up to the rail.
“I am Prison Governor Costigan.” His voiced boomed from the huge flat speakers mounted on the wall behind him, and as one the heads of all the people below lifted to look him in the face. “I won’t waste your time. You have work to do. But understand this. If you work well, you will receive two rewards: You’ll stay alive, and you will eat well. If you do not, then you will die. That’s all you need to know. Forget the future. You have none. This is all the future you have. And forget the past. It’s gone, and you will never get it back.” There was a moment’s pause while he looked for dissent, for anger, but there was none, just shock, disbelief, and fear.
“Staff Sergeant Williams. They are all yours.”
The large black-suited man beside Costigan, stun gun cradled casually in his arms, nodded. “Look down at your chests. All of you with a black tag around your neck, move to the door marked A. Yes, that’s it, black tags to Door A. Yellow tags to Door B at the back. And red tags to Door C. Black to A, yellow to B, and red to C. Now move.”
Williams paused as the group, encouraged by low-power shots from the stun guns, slowly separated into three smaller groups, each huddled around its respective door.
“Good. Now, when your door opens, walk through that door and keep walking until you come to the next door. When that opens, walk through. Keep going until you are told otherwise.” With that, the doors silently slid open, and after a momentary pause the three groups slowly disappeared from sight, leaving behind only the faint sour smell of fear and six black-suited guards.
As the doors shut, Williams turned back to Costigan. “That’s it, sir. A total of 160 altogether: thirty-five to Hell-5, twenty-nine to Hell-16, and the rest, ninety-six in all, to Hell-18.”
“Ninety-six to Hell-18. That’s a lot. Why so many?”
“They’re a bit shorthanded, sir, ever since that incident with the runaway pellet processor.”
