colonel, and they came in only one variety: lethally dangerous.
When Hartspring finally spoke, his voice was gentle and conciliatory. “Come on, Michael. No need for that,” he urged patiently, as if Michael were a wayward child. “Come on, sit down,” he said, pointing to a chair with his little cane. “We need to talk.”
Without a word, Michael did as he was told, watching Hartspring warily as the man settled himself into a chair opposite him.
“Now.” Hartspring leaned forward. “Listen to me, Michael. We can do this the easy way or we can-”
Astonished, Hartspring stopped as Michael lost it completely for the second time in as many minutes, but this time there was no anger. This time his head went back, and he laughed hysterically, chest heaving despite the pain, tears pouring down his face, hands slapping the arms of the chair. “Oh, Jesus! That hurts,” he sobbed, half laughing, half crying, near hysteria. “Really, Colonel Hartspring.” He paused to wipe his face, carefully avoiding the latest repairs to his shattered cheekbone. “Colonel. .”
Michael put his hands up, palms out, in an attempt to pacify Hartspring; by now the man looked pretty pissed. Michael decided he had to go for it. He had to take the chance.
“Colonel,” he apologized, “I’m sorry, really I am. Please forgive me, but save the corny trashvid stuff. I know how you guys do things. I know all about DocSec. You’re going to be nice to me, make me an offer, God knows what about. I’ll refuse, then your tame gorilla here”-Michael waved a dismissive hand at Jacobsen-“will beat the shit out of me, then you’ll be nice again. Around and around we’ll go until I drop dead or you get what you want.”
Hartspring sat mute, refusing to respond.
Michael plowed on. “So, Colonel, let’s cut to the chase. Why don’t you tell me exactly what you want. I’ll think about it and let you know if I can do what you want or not. If I can, then fine, I will. If I can’t, then I’ll tell you straight up.”
Michael took in a slow, deep breath. The moment had come for another big, big lie. He was getting good at them. He stared Hartspring right in the eye, face fixed in what he fondly hoped was a convincing look of earnest good faith.
“But here’s the catch, Colonel. If you lay a hand on me after that, I’ll order my neuronics to put me into a coma, a terminal coma. Your Doctor Whatshisname out there will never get me back. No Hammer doctor will ever get me back. Doesn’t matter how good they are. If you don’t get me to a Fed doctor inside sixty days, I’ll slip away quietly, and that’ll be that. You can feed me to the pigs. You can have me stuffed and mounted on a pedestal. You can chuck me into one of your damn lime pits. I won’t know, and I sure as hell won’t care.”
For a moment, Hartspring sat there. In an instant, he was out of his seat and, blindingly fast, reaching across to Michael, his riding crop slashing down backhanded. The crop sliced down across Michael’s face, reopening the cut across his forehead before a second slashing blow added a new cut to the side of his head. Thank God he’s not left-handed, Michael thought through the blinding pain, forcing himself not to respond. If Hartspring had been, his left cheekbone would have gone for the third time.
With obvious effort, Hartspring got himself back under control. He stood back.
Michael looked up at him, ignoring the blood running down his face. “I think you heard me, Colonel,” he said through teeth clenched tight with pain. “So do we have a deal?”
Hartspring half turned to Jacobsen. For one awful moment, Michael thought he was going to call his bluff and put Jacobsen to work. His heart began to pound, but Hartspring had other plans.
“Sergeant! Take Helfort to the doctor. Get him stitched up. I want him back here within the hour. Understood?”
“Sir.”
Hartspring turned and left.
A long and painful hour later, Hartspring returned.
“Right, Helfort. Sit down. I’ll make this quick. In exchange for your life, resettlement under a new identity anywhere in humanspace, and a one-time payment of five million FedMarks, the government of the Hammer of Kraa requires you to sign this affidavit”-Hartspring pushed a single sheet of paper across the table-“testifying to the fact that the Battle of Hell’s Moons was part of a wider Fed campaign to destroy the Hammer of Kraa and that the hijacking of the
Michael’s eyebrows shot up as Hartspring sat back. What a load of bullshit, he thought. The man was barking mad.
“Thank you, Colonel.” Michael kept his tone businesslike. “That’s clear. May I think about what you’re asking me to do?”
“You do that, Helfort. I’ll be back at 09:00 tomorrow for your answer.”
“Thank you, sir. I don’t suppose you’ll let me talk it over with someone from the FedWorld embassy?” he added.
“Don’t push your damn luck, Helfort. Remember where you are,” Hartspring replied viciously. “I’ll see you at 09:00 tomorrow.”
“Fine by me, sir.”
Michael watched Hartspring leave. He stared at the door as it shut with a heavy thud, locks closing with metallic thunks.
Grabbing a big glass of fresh orange juice, he sat down to think through Hartspring’s offer, not that it needed any thinking, really. He already knew the answer-it would be some variation or other on the time-honored theme of “go fuck yourself ”-but he needed to be sure he had no better options.
He shook his head in bewilderment. Why the Hammers thought putting him up on the stand would help improve their image was a complete mystery. Now, if they could get a Fed admiral to turn over, that would be worth the effort. But a humble junior lieutenant? It was complete bullshit.
Michael realized that what he was seeing here was a textbook example of a culture that believed its own propaganda. Well, he decided, that’s what you got when dissent was ruthlessly suppressed, when reasoned argument was impossible. After all, arguing with someone who had the power of life and death over you was probably a good way to end up in a DocSec lime pit.
Well, be that as it may. He could not change what a bunch of dumb Hammers might think, and he was not going to try. He had rolled the dice. He had told the big lie. Either the colonel believed he could put himself into a coma at will or he did not.
If Hartspring did not believe him, he was completely screwed. The Hammers would soft-soap him one minute and beat the crap out of him the next until he either gave in or died. Michael shivered, the fear coming out of nowhere to grab him, turning his bowels to water. He was scared, more scared than he had been looking out at an oncoming Hammer rail-gun salvo.
He cursed silently. It was going to be a long, long day.
Tuesday, September 14, 2399, UD
Michael started as the door banged open. It was Colonel Hartspring, on time to the second, followed by the everwatchful Sergeant Jacobsen. Michael searched Hartspring’s face for clues, but the man was impassive as he waved Michael into a chair and sat down himself.
“So, Michael. What’s the answer? Do we have a deal?”
Michael shook his head. “No, we do not. I cannot do what you want me to do. I’m sorry.”
Hartspring put his head back and sighed. It was the sigh of a patient man coming to the end of his tether. Nice acting, you Hammer pig, Michael thought as his heart sank. Hartspring leaned forward and looked straight at him.
“I know you think we’re fools, Michael.” His hand went up as Michael started to protest. “No, let me finish.” He paused to regather his thoughts. “We’re not, you know. Well,” he said, tapping the table with his riding crop- Michael had never seen him without it-for emphasis, “I’m not. Now, personally, I happen to think you’re a damn liar.
