and the sun was sinking fast into the west. It would be dark soon. He started toward his hut, wondering what delicacies the galley crew would have on offer for lunch.
“Michael!” Fellsworth called after him. “Hold on a second.”
Michael turned. “Sir?”
“Come with me,” she ordered. “I need you to witness what I sincerely hope will be the last chapter in this sorry saga.”
“I don’t-” Michael said, puzzled.
She cut him off. “No questions. Just come with me. I need a full neuronics record of what comes next.”
Puzzled, Michael followed her through the snow. Fellsworth’s destination soon became obvious, and before long they were alone with the four mutineers. They stared at Fellsworth, their faces a mix of fear and bravado.
“Come to tell us when we get turned off, have you, Fellsworth?’ Hashemian said bitterly.
“Actually, no. I’m here to tell you how you don’t, so-”
“Yeah, yeah, right,” Hashemian sneered. “Why don’t you-”
Xing did not let him finish. “Shut the fuck up, Hashemian. You’ve done enough damage, so listen for once.”
“That’s very good advice, and I suggest you take it, Hashemian,” Fellsworth said emphatically. Hashemian’s head went down in defeat. “Good. Now, I have a simple proposition. All I need is a yes or a no. So listen up. Okay?”
The group nodded reluctantly.
“Good. If you give me your word that you will do everything in your power to ensure that we escape successfully from this damn camp, I will guarantee that your sentences will be set aside.”
“You can do that?” Xing asked, hope splashed all over his face.
“I can, and I will. On my honor as a commissioned officer, I absolutely guarantee it,” Fellsworth said. Her confidence was justified; although the Hammers were undoubtedly their enemy, it was a nearly certain bet that the appeals court could not agree without a formal declaration of war. That meant no death sentence. A technicality, true, but enough to get the four spacers off death row. “So, what’s it to be?”
There was a short pause as the four spacers looked at one another. First Xing nodded, then the rest.
“Good,” Fellsworth said, “but let me hear you say it.”
There was a chorus of agreement. Fellsworth was satisfied. “Michael, you got all that?”
“I have it, sir.”
“Fine.” She turned back to the mutineers. “Helfort will comm each of you a copy of the recording. Right, we are done here. I am releasing you on bail on your own recognizance pending appeal. That’s all. Michael, brief Corporal Yazdi so she knows what the situation is.”
With that she was gone. Michael sat, stunned by it all, as were the mutineers. They looked shell- shocked.
“Corporal Yazdi!”
Corporal Yazdi and Marine Murphy watched in silence as the four mutineers left the hut.
“Do you think they believed me?” Murphy whispered.
“Well,” Yazdi replied, stretching up to pat Murphy on the shoulder, “I would. I think it was the bit about ripping their arms off that did the trick. So yes, I think they did. I don’t think they’ll be talking to the Hammers.”
“They better not,” Murphy muttered darkly.
Thursday, November 25, 2399, UD
Fleet Admiral Jorge got to his feet to make his way to the lectern. He nodded at the grim-faced man seated at the head of the Council table. “Thank you, Chief Councillor. In the interests of time, I’ll give a quick overview of q-ship operations to date and then take any questions.”
“Fine,” Polk muttered, waving at Jorge to continue. He had heard it all before, but to keep the Council up-to- date, he would have to hear it again.
Jorge nodded to his flag lieutenant, who flicked on the holovid projector. A three-dimensional model of humanspace bloomed on the holovid that filled an entire wall of the room.
“You can see here, gentlemen”-Jorge flicked a laser pointer across the display-“following the success of the Xiang operation in which the Feds lost twenty-seven merchant ships and the heavy cruiser
Jorge paused, pleased to see the smiles of approval on the faces of everyone present-even the usually sour- faced Polk-before continuing.
“Our intelligence sources confirm that Operation Cavalcade is on track; the Federated Worlds are being forced to redeploy forces away from planetary defense to protect their trade routes.”
“And the follow-on operation?” Polk asked.
“Damascus, sir. As I said, the Feds are being forced to do what we want them to do, so it’s looking good. At this stage, I am confident that the preconditions for Operation Damascus will be met. Its objective is to convince the Feds that an attack in overwhelming force on their home planets is imminent, an attack they cannot counter thanks to our development of antimatter warheads for our missiles. If it can do that-and I am convinced that it will- then the Feds will be forced to the negotiating table. At which point”-Jorge looked pointedly across the table at the councillor for foreign relations-“the Hammer Fleet will have done everything it has been asked to do.”
“Any change to the timing?”
Jorge shook his head. “No, sir. Unless things change, I will be seeking formal approval from the Council in March to initiate Operation Damascus effective April 1.”
Polk looked pleased. “Good. Now, turning to other matters. .”
Thursday, November 25, 2399, UD
It had been two months to the day since Michael had arrived at I-2355. Now, finally, the long hours of laborious preparation were finished. He was outside the wire and clear of the camp. Michael still did not believe it; his heart pounded and his chest heaved as he lay under his chromaflage sheet waiting for the rest of his stick of escapees to make it out.
With Hashemian’s short-lived mutiny safely contained, the pace had been relentless. Outwardly, the occupants of I-2355 did the little that had to be done around their camp, mainly clearing the snow dumped by endless blizzards, performing household chores, and turning out in the cold for the Hammers’ twice-daily roll calls.
Inwardly, well out of sight of the Hammers, the camp was a hive of furious labor as geneered bacteria from the escape kits were broken out and put to work. Soon the camp’s kitchen was organized into the production lines that would manufacture all the essentials needed to support an escape from I-2355 in the middle of winter. The bacterial brews all smelled like camp stew, but eating their product, though not fatal, was not recommended.
One produced a gray-green slime that when dried would become concentrated high-energy biscuits. A second produced a clear mix that could be drawn out through a thin hole to produce meters and meters of monofil line strong enough to carry the weight of two men. The third was a wood-based cellulose mix that could be poured into crude molds for final shaping into hiking staffs, snowshoes, tent poles, backpack frames, and lightweight snow shovels. The fourth, another unholy cellulose-based brew, could be poured onto any clean flat surface; two hours
