The Final Battle

Michael laughed. “I guess not.”

“So they checked, and that took a while-” Shinoda turned to glare at the gangly marine sitting alongside her. “-which it need not have done if Marine Clothcock Mitchell here-” She reached out and smacked the back of Mitchell’s head. “-hadn’t given the border security guys some lip.”

“Hey, sarge,” the man protested.

“Don’t fucking ‘hey, sarge’ me, Marine Mitchell. I’ve told you before: Keep your damn mouth shut. If I need you to speak, I’ll tell you. Understood?”

Mitchell nodded.

“Anyway,” Shinoda continued, “the Live-in-Hope Mining Company duly came back to say that all was aboveboard. Turns out the border security guys thought we might have been planning to sell the consignment to the Rogue Worlds.”

“Well, Lagerfeld does trade with them.”

“It does.”

Michael looked around the battered bulkheads of the tiny compartment that passed for the ship’s passenger saloon. “Not the best ship I’ve ever been in,” he said.

“The Golden Gladiator?” Shinoda chuckled. “She’ll do. The captain’s a strange man, the mate’s even weirder, but the engineer is solid as rock. We’ve had a look around. She’s an old ship, but they look after her.”

“So we’ll get to Lagerfeld okay?”

“We will … Let me see; yes, another day and half should see us there.”

“Any changes to the plan?”

“None. We transfer to the President Cruz as soon as we dock; it breaks orbit four hours later. We should be dirtside on Scobie’s on schedule.”

“Good,” Michael said. The moment of truth was fast approaching; he shivered at the thought of what it would take to get past DocSec security and safely dirtside on Commitment. For all the assurances he had been given by Jaruzelska, by Fellsworth, by the spooks from 66, by the tech guys from intelligence support, the fact was that the Hammers, always obsessed with their border security, were now beyond paranoid.

“You okay?” Shinoda asked.

“Oh, sorry,” Michael said. “I was just thinking about DocSec. Can’t say I’m looking forward to meeting them again.”

“We’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, we will,” Michael said. He tried to ignore the fact that they had a reasonable chance of not making it. “They got anything like a gym onboard this scow?”

“Hey! Don’t let the crew hear you calling their beloved Golden Gladiator a scow. They’ll tear you a new one.”

“Oops,” Michael said, chuckling. “So no gym?”

“Afraid not. But we have found some mats. We’ll be doing unarmed combat drills. Care to join us?”

Michael did not like the way a wolfish grin had appeared on Shinoda’s face. He sighed. “I hate marines. All you ever want to do is kick ass.”

“Never kicked the ass of a dead man before.”

Michael sighed again. “Well, now’s your chance. Come on, then. Let’s do it.”

With frightening speed and power, Shinoda scythed Michael’s legs from under him and smashed him into the mat with a sickening thud that drove the air from his lungs. An instant later, Shinoda had somehow gotten her arms around his throat and head, twisting and squeezing until Michael had to slap the mat in surrender.

Gasping, he dragged the air back into tortured lungs sip by agonizing sip. “You fucking bastard,” he wheezed.

“Had enough, spacer boy?” Shinoda said. She let him go and rolled away. “Honestly,” she said, standing up to pull Michael to his feet, “you Fleet guys are a bunch of pussies. You couldn’t fight off a three-legged dog.”

“Yeah, right,” Michael muttered. He tried to ease the aches out of his back and shoulders. “Anyway, better a pussy than a fucking psycho.”

“Not where we’re going. Now, you had enough?”

“One more, but show me how you did that throw.”

“Sucker! Right, stand like this … yes, okay. Now …”

• • •

Michael lay in his bunk in the half darkness. The only sound was the gentle hiss of the air-conditioning. The images of Shinoda and her four marines had stayed with him, stuck in his mind. It had been almost frightening to watch the carefully controlled mix of skill, finesse, speed, and brutality at work. Their drills looked like the real thing. More than once Michael had been sure, absolutely sure, that one of the team members would end up badly injured, even dead.

I might be the man to captain a dreadnought, he thought, but I want Shinoda and her marines alongside me when the fighting gets up close and personal.

But all the Shinodas in the world would count for nothing when they came up against DocSec.

DocSec did not need skill, finesse, or speed. They had the only thing they needed: brutality, and plenty of it.

Friday, June 11, 2404, UD

City of Foundation, Terranova

“… and we’ll have more news as it comes to hand, but for those who have just joined us, we have reports that a shuttle carrying Moderator Ferrero was attacked today as it lifted off from Lenore Island after she addressed a rally of the Federation Peace League. We have been told by sources inside planetary defense that the shuttle was hit by two surface-to-air missiles and was badly damaged but managed to land safely. We also have unconfirmed reports-and I must stress that they are unconfirmed-that Federal Police believe the attack was the work of senior space fleet personnel unhappy about what they believe to be the Ferrero government’s appeasement of the Hammers. In response to the incident, a state of emergency is now in force. And now we’ll cross to-”

Vice Admiral Jaruzelska cut the neuronics link; reopening her eyes, she looked at the man sitting opposite her for a moment. The cafe around them was hushed as the midmorning coffee crowd absorbed the shocking news. “I smell the Hammers,” she said. “I wonder what took them so long.”

“Who knows,” Vice Admiral John N’tini replied, pushing his coffee cup away.

“Fleet’s been set up, John, and we know why. I’ll call the boss to see if she’s heard anything. I’ll also try Juanita Chou at planetary defense.”

“You do that, Angela. I’ll see if my FedPol contacts can tell us what’s happened.”

“Call me if you find out anything.”

“Will do.”

Jaruzelska and N’tini started to their feet. Two men pushed into the air-conditioned comfort of the cafe. They bundled aside two patrons trying to leave at the same time.

“Rude bastards,” Jaruzelska growled as she watched the men thread their way through the tables. They’re FedPol, and they’re coming for us, she thought.

“I’m Chief Inspector Meir,” the older of the two men said, “and this is Sergeant Hardina, Federal Police. You are Admiral Jaruzelska?”

“You already know that,” Jaruzelska said.

“And you are Admiral N’tini?” Meir asked.

“Yes,” N’tini replied.

“John N’tini and Angela Jaruzelska,” Meir said, his voice cold and formal, “I am arresting you both under the provisions of Section 19 of the Emergency Powers Act. In accordance with that act, you will be remanded in custody until a duly authorized Federal Police officer details the charges against you in the Federal Court of Criminal Justice. You are obliged to answer all questions put to you by the Federal Police, and any failure to answer such questions may prejudice your defense. Do you understand?”