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
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
Polk grunted derisively. “Admiral, why in Kraa’s name would I care? The
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.
