Polk could only stare, Ndegwa's words flowing over him unheard, relegated to background chatter by the full import of what he was looking at. Until this moment, the treaty of mutual support had been nothing more than black marks printed on pieces of old-fashioned paper, bound together, signed, and sealed with the great seals of the Pascanici League and the Hammer of Kraa Worlds. Although he had never doubted the Pascanicians, there was always a chance that they might renege. After all, if they did, what could the Hammer Worlds do?
But the Pascanicians had not reneged, and now the treaty was a real, living thing, its words transformed into actions, actions that made a difference, actions that would see the Feds crushed into slavery and the Hammer Worlds raised up to be masters of humanspace. His heart pounded with excitement. Another ten years, he thought, another ten years and the promise would be reality.
'… at which point, the microfab-'
'Thank you, Doctor,' Polk said, putting his hand up to halt what was fast becoming a lecture on microfab technology. 'Most interesting. Now, tell me. What do you think of the Pascanicians?'
'Well, sir, they've not been with us long, so it's a bit early to say. Professor Arnoldsen is of course one of humanspace's leading authorities on magnetic flux engineering, so I have high hopes that they will more than live up to their reputation.'
Polk turned his gaze away from the landers to look right at Ndegwa. 'I'm sure they will, Doctor,' he said, his voice silky with unstated menace. 'I'm sure they will. I will be disappointed if they are not able to reduce processing times by the 40 percent you promised the project steering committee.'
'Yes, sir,' Ndegwa said, sweat beading under his eyes, each droplet a tiny pearl of fear sparkling in the brilliant light.
'Good,' Polk said, teeth bared in what he fondly imagined to be a smile of encouragement. 'Where to next?' Saturday, March 23, 2402, UD FLTDETCOMM, Branxton Base, Commitment
'… and I owe you nothing less,' Michael said, pausing to look around at the Feds seated around the battered plasfiber table. 'I owe Janos Kallewi'-Michael's voice cracked under the weight of guilt he bore every waking minute of every day-'Dev Acharya, Jenna Radetska, and all the others who have died here on Commitment nothing less. I promise you this: I will do whatever it takes to get you all home safely. Now, I know you have to return to your units, so that's all from me. Thank you for making the effort to be here to wish me and Kat luck; I can't tell you how much we appreciate it. Thank you all again.'
The silence as Michael finished was total, and it lasted a long time. Slowly, reluctantly, the gathering broke up into small groups, the sound of their muted conversations filling the canteen with a soft buzz. Michael sat back to let them talk, intensely proud of the men and women who had been part of Operation Gladiator from the start. Without them Anna would be dead and he, too, most likely. He owed them an enormous debt, one he could never repay.
'Hello, spacer,' Bienefelt said, throwing her huge body into the seat alongside Michael, its plasfiber frame squeaking in protest. 'Why so sad?'
'It's okay for you to be so damn cheerful, Matti. You don't have a race between an undermaintained heavy lander and every missile in the McNair air-defense command to look forward to.'
'You worry too much,' Bienefelt said, 'and that's a fact. Long Shot will work.'
'Yeah, maybe. Anyway, how's the 246th?'
'Don't ask! I prefer to do my fighting from a lander. I'm too big to be a grunt. I'm a hard target to miss.'
Michael winced. 'Jeez, Matti! Don't say that.'
'Don't worry,' Bienefelt said, waving the stump of her left arm at Michael. 'The 246th is full of people like me: the halt, the lame, not to mention the bewildered. It's strictly security duties only. We're taking over Romeo sector. I'll be in charge of Portal Romeo-22. You can call me Sergeant Bienefelt, by the way.'
'Christ, another closet marine,' Michael said, rolling his eyes. 'What with you and Anna, I'm having trouble keeping up. Promise me that there'll be no charging the Hammers, rifle in one hand, crowbar in the other.'
'Shit, no,' Bienefelt said. 'Well, not until I get enough time in a regen tank to grow this damn hand back. I'll be a one-armed wonder for a long time yet.'
'Yeah, it'll be a while.' Michael frowned. 'Too many casualties, too few tanks.'
'Yeah. Listen, sir. I've got to go; the 246th waits for nobody. We're moving out in a couple of hours. I just wanted to say… you know, take care and all that. I'll be seriously pissed if you…'
'I'll be back, Matti,' Michael said softly. 'I'll be back. Promise.'
'You better be or I'll hunt you down and kick your bony little ass.'
'Bye, Matti,' Michael said, praying that the one-armed Bienefelt would still be around when he returned to Commitment.
Sedova walked over with her crew. 'See you in the morning, Michael,' she said, looking as she did before every mission: indecently cheerful. He swore she did it to irritate him. She knew he suffered badly from premission nerves.
'You will,' Michael replied. 'Thanks,' he said, shaking hands with the crew of the now-defunct Alley Kat.
Michael watched the rest of the Gladiator Survivors Club trickle out of the FLTDETCOMM canteen. It had been an emotional meeting. The club had started with sixty-one spacers and marines; its numbers were down to forty-six now. He wondered how many would be left by the time he got back. He snorted softly, a sharp, bitter intake of breath. Get back! If he ever did.
Chief Chua and the rest of what had once-a lifetime ago, it seemed-been the engineering department of Federated Worlds Starship Redwood were the last to leave.
'Good luck, sir,' Petty Officer Morozov said. 'After all we've been through, I feel bad we won't be there.'
'Don't,' Michael said firmly. 'I've asked far too much of you guys already. It's up to me now.'
'That's a crock, sir,' Chief Chua said, 'an absolute crock.'
'And you know it,' Chief Fodor and Petty Officer Lim added, as one.
Michael could not suppress a grin. These four senior spacers had every right to take him to task for the fact they were now trapped on the Hammer's home planet with only the slenderest chance of ever getting back to the Federated Worlds. But not once had there been even the slightest hint of criticism. The opposite: Without exception, the attitude of the Gladiator Survivors Club was one of acceptance underpinned by a dogged determination to see things through.
'Insubordinate rabble,' he said. 'Anyway, it's a fact. Lieutenant Sedova assures me that Hell Bent can manage without your services, so here you'll stay, and I can't say I'm sorry about that.'
'Only to save weight,' Fodor said. 'Our competence had nothing to do with it. Though what I know about lander systems is not worth knowing.'
'Speak for yourself, Chief,' Morozov said. 'I made a damn good loadmaster.'
'Enough, people,' Chief Chua said firmly. 'We have microfabs to look after; the little bastards do not like being left to their own devices. Good luck, sir.'
'Thanks, everyone.'
With a chorus of 'good lucks' the engineers left, and then the canteen was empty. Michael was alone for the first time in weeks. Tired to the point of exhaustion, he was happy not to have to talk to anyone; truth be told, he was talked out.
He sat back, rubbing eyes gritty with fatigue; if he thought he could sleep, he'd find an empty bunk and crash. But he knew sleep would not come, so instead he sat, staring at the rock wall in front of him, the months since Hartspring's message had torn his world apart racing through his mind: people, events, decisions, consequences, all tearing past in a jumbled, rushing procession.
Suddenly it struck him, and hard, just how much things had changed. True, some things hadn't: his love for Anna and his deep and bitter hatred of DocSec, to mention only two. But most of all, he had changed; he was no longer the man who had been appointed in command of Redwood. That man was long gone, ground into dust by the endless struggle to defeat the Hammers, recycled into somebody new.
He sighed, wondering if the new Michael Helfort was any better than the old. He was not at all sure he was.
But one thing had improved. He had always known there were good and bad people, with everything in between. But he had not understood what made people truly good.
He thought he did now.
Good people were those he could trust with his life, who meant what they said, who did not try to blame others
