Graham Paul: The Final Battle

“Peace dividend?” Hok said.

“Yes, Polk will use the peace dividend to make sure the Revival cannot win a political victory either.”

“Things might look bad right now, General,” Michael said, trying to make himself sound upbeat, “but we can have faith in Admiral Jaruzelska. If she says we are a long way from being beaten, then I think we should believe her.”

“I wish I could,” Cortez said. “Problem is, I can’t.” He pushed himself to his feet with an obvious effort; he looked like a beaten man. “Come, Major; we have a report to write.”

In silence, Michael watched them leave. “Damn, damn, damn,” he muttered. “What the hell do we do now?”

“Michael!” Sedova snapped. “Didn’t you tell me once it’s not over until the Hammers bang the coffin lid down on us?”

”I think they just did.”

Sedova thumped the table with both fists “Bullshit!” she snapped. “What is the matter with you?”

Annoyed now, Michael scowled at her. “Piss off. I’m not in the mood for any rah-rah speeches.”

“And you won’t get one, but you need to lift your game, son.”

“And why should I do that? I think it’s over; I really do. The Hammers will win; the Feds, the Revival, the NRA will lose; and I’ll never see Anna again because Jeremiah fucking Polk will never rest until DocSec gets its hands on me, and when they do …” Overwhelmed by the extent of the defeat hanging over their heads, Michael could not go on.

“This is not over, Michael. Jaruzelska said so herself. If she says it’s all finished, then fine. I’ll accept that and go find myself a job somewhere the Hammers won’t bother me.”

“Have to be a long way away,” Michael said. “When it comes to empire building, a megalomaniac like Polk won’t stop until he’s got his foot on every last system in humanspace.”

“I’m sick of your sad face, so I’m off to find a beer. Feel free to join me when you’ve got your shit back together.”

And when will that be? Michael asked himself as Sedova stormed out, slamming the door hard behind her.

Monday, April 22, 2402, UD

Clevennes, Asthana planet

Vice Admiral Jaruzelska had sat silently throughout Cortez’s presentation.

Now she leaned forward to look the man in the face. “I have a lot of questions, General, as you would expect, but none I need to ask now. What is important is that I’m convinced, and that brings us to the next problem.”

“How to get your government to agree.” Cortez’s face was sour with frustration. “We’ve been watching the newsvids from the Federated Worlds, and it’s … very depressing, I have to say.”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is, and things won’t get any better. The cease-fire agreement is scheduled to be ratified by our Chamber of Deputies, let me see … yes, in less than twelve hours, and it will be. Ferrero has the numbers on the floor of the chamber, so it’s a done deal. The opposition will do what they can, but nobody listens to them, and anyway, there aren’t enough of them left to make a difference.”

“Not even if we tell everyone what the Pascanicians are doing to restore the Hammers’ antimatter capability and what that means not just for the Worlds but for the rest of humanspace?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“But why?” Cortez demanded. “Won’t the facts speak for themselves?”

Jaruzelska shook her head emphatically. “No. Our intelligence agencies have a different view of what the Pascanicians are up to. Put simply, they’ve bought the cover story the Hammers have put out that they are helping to modernize your-”

“Not ours,” Cortez growled.

Jaruzelska put up a conciliatory hand. “Sorry,” she said. “Our intelligence people say the Pascanicians are helping to modernize the Hammers’ starship production program, and it will be very hard to change their minds. That means-and please don’t take this the wrong way, General Cortez-the Federated Worlds will only have the NRA intelligence you have provided. I’ll tell you now; it will be seen as tainted, self-serving, and therefore unreliable.”

“So what do we do? We can’t just give up.”

“No, we can’t, though to be honest, I am not at all sure what we do next. I need to get back to the Federated Worlds, meet with some people, see what our options are. Give me a week and we’ll talk again.”

“I guess that’s the best we can ask for,” Cortez said, his voice dulled by disappointment.

“I’m afraid it is.”

Wednesday, April 24, 2402, UD

Leaving Clevennes, Asthana planet

Michael stared out of the mobibot’s window, still depressed by Jaruzelska’s less than enthusiastic response to General Cortez. Bakker sat up front in grim silence; all she’d said was that they were heading for a new safe house. Where it was and how long it would take to get there, Michael had no idea. Before long, he drifted into sleep and his head toppled over onto an already unconscious Sedova’s shoulder.

Bakker’s voice dragged Michael up and out of the darkness. “Wake up!” she shouted, punching his shoulder to get his attention. “Wake up!”

“What’s up?” Michael asked, bleary-eyed and confused by the panic in her voice.

“Not sure,” Bakker said, “but we were passed by a mobibot five minutes ago, and two more have just turned up behind us. That’s not normal, not on this road.”

Adrenaline flooded Michael’s system. In an instant he was wide awake, and his mind went up a gear as he struggled to work out what to do. “We should abandon this bot, take off on foot.”

“Too late. Look out the window.”

“Shit,” Michael hissed when he spotted the surveillance drones-a cluster of tiny black spots against the morning sky-dropping into position around them.

Then their options ran out. The road ahead was blocked by two mobibots, and four figures, hooded and armed with assault rifles, waited for them. The road behind them was closed off by two more fast-approaching vehicles.

“I’m sorry, guys,” she said, her voice thick with defeat. “I think we’re about to get screwed.”

Fear, malevolent and all-consuming, surged through Michael’s body, turning his guts to water and his mind to mush. Every instinct told him he had to get away. He lunged for the door. “Go, Kat, go!” he shouted. He slapped the controls to open and threw himself out. He hit the ground hard, too hard. He rolled and tumbled; gravel ripped his shirt off and tore at his back. He slid to a stop. Ignoring the pain, he started to his feet. He got no farther before he was hit hard in the small of his back, first one blow and then another and another. A microsecond later, every nerve ending in his body exploded into white-hot agony that plunged him into unconsciousness before he’d even reached the ground.

Michael was confused. Why was his face cold and wet? Why was he so tired? He just wanted to sleep, but he was being shaken and the light was getting brighter and brighter. It drove splinters of agony into his brain. His head thrashed from side to side in an attempt to get away. “Too bright,” he mumbled. Then a hood was slipped over his head, and the light was gone.

“He’s awake,” a distant voice said. It was a man’s voice: flat, metallic, nasal. The man was using a processor to conceal his accent. With a rush, memory flooded back, and with memory came a raw terror that devoured his self-control, a terror fueled by the awful certainty that somehow the Hammers had found him. “I’ll get the medics,” the voice said.

Michael put up with the indignity of being stripped naked for a complete medical examination. It’s not like the Hammers to worry too much about the health of their victims , he thought, so they must want me in good shape. But why? For a show trial?