“I do, though to be fair, Hammer spacers are basically okay. They tend to follow the rules of war. It’s DocSec you have to worry about. They don’t follow any rules at all. I’d be much more worried if she was in their hands.”
“I’ve met the Hammer’s new defense force chief, Admiral Belasz,” Diouf said. “Apparently they’ve just shot his predecessor, something they like to do when things go wrong. Jorge, I think his name was. Sorry, Michael, I digress. Anyway, I met Belasz, a few years ago at some function or other, but I remember him quite well. For a Hammer, he’s a decent man. When you are talking about Hammers, I realize that’s not saying much, but we understand he is very firm when it comes to treating prisoners of war properly.”
“Unlike his boss.”
“Chief Councillor Polk. There’s a truly evil man,” Diouf said with a grimace of distaste. “Listen, Michael. Colonel Kashvili’s nagging me to go to my next engagement, so I’ll be quick. What I’m about to tell you is sensitive, and I’m pretty sure I should not be telling you, so I’m going to block it, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Michael said, utterly mystified while he enabled Diouf’s neuronics block.
“Good … right, that’s done. I just wanted you to know that we’re not sitting around waiting for the Hammers to hand back our people. I’m leaning hard on the government to work with the Red Cross to arrange a prisoner exchange with the Hammers.”
Michael’s face must have betrayed his elation. Diouf placed her hand on his arm. “Michael, a word of caution. It’s early days, and the Hammers are the most unreasonable people in humanspace. You know that. So it may well not come to anything.”
“I understand, ma’am. It’s just good to know that we’re trying.”
“We are, and I’m hopeful the Red Cross can organize it. There’ll be an announcement if we make any progress, so be patient. Very patient; it’s going to take a long time if it ever happens at all. Okay?”
“Yes, ma’am. And thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s a million miles from a done deal, and knowing the Hammers, there is a good chance it may never happen. I just wanted you to know we’re trying.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
“Right. Yes, yes, Colonel,” Diouf said to her aide-to-camp. “I’m coming, Good luck, Michael.” And with that she left, leaving Michael to wonder how so much charisma ended up packed into so small a frame. It was no wonder she had been reelected so many times. He would be voting for her every time she cared to run.
“What was that all about?” Andrew Helfort said.
“Can’t say, sorry.”
Michael’s father stared at him, eyes narrowed, a look of shrewd appraisal on his face. “You look happier, so I think I can guess. No, no, I won’t,” he said in response to Michael’s look of alarm. “We want to meet your executive officer. She sounds like a real gem and a brave one to boot.”
“Jayla? She’s a star.” Michael glanced across the crowd to where Ferreira stood. “I think she’s over there with the Fleet’s largest coxswain.”
Andrew Helfort laughed. “Let me guess … Chief Petty Officer Bienefelt?”
“The same,” Michael said.
“I remember her dad, though I only met him once. He was a hard man to miss. Like a small mountain on legs.”
Michael rolled his eyes, wondering if there was anyone in Fleet his parents did not know. “Come on, follow me,” he said wearily.
Sunday, June 17, 2401, UD
The Palisades
Beer in hand, feet up, Michael sat in the warmth of the late-afternoon sun, the only sound the comforting buzz of one of the security drones that watched over him day and night. The last thing he had wanted was leave, but Fleet had been emphatic, so here he sat, alone, slowly getting drunk and trying not to think about all the promises he had made, promises that a posting as captain in command of Redwood rendered nearly impossible to keep. What difference could he make, tucked away in orbit around Nyleth-B? Goddamnit, what a waste of three good dreadnoughts.
Dispirited, Michael tossed the empty beer bottle into the bin and commed the drinkbot for another.
For the umpteenth time, he went through it all. After the Hammers staged their big push in May, the war settled down into a pointless series of tit-for-tat exchanges, none of which made any difference to the overall strategic situation, a badly stretched Fed Fleet holding the Hammers at bay: just. The brutal truth was that neither side had the wherewithal to force the war to a conclusion, and neither would until one side or the other won the race to get antimatter warheads onto their missiles in large enough numbers to pave the way for a successful invasion. Michael had no way of knowing when that day might come, but it sure as hell would not be soon.
It was ironic. The Feds had the resources to weaponize antimatter but not the know-how. The Hammers had the know-how but not the resources. Either way, it was going to be years before the strategic balance shifted, and to whom it shifted … well, talk about the big question. One thing was for sure, though: The Hammers had as good a chance of winning the race as the Feds did.
Michael could not wait for years, he just could not. Leaving Anna to rot in some damn Hammer prison camp while he lived the rest of his life? Not a chance. Forgetting all those whose deaths he had sworn to avenge? Not a chance. Sitting around scratching his ass waiting for the Hammers to win the antimatter race? Not a chance. Sitting around praying the Feds did? Not a chance.
There was a way, he promised himself as he drained his beer. There had to be. Problem was, he had no idea what. What could he do, stuck on Nyleth-B with three dreadnoughts? A lot of nothing, that was what.
In a sudden fit of frustration and anger, he hurled the empty bottle at the bin; catching the lip, it splintered into a hundred pieces. Much like his promises, Michael thought morosely as he commed the housebot to come clean up: empty vessels, easily broken, and once broken, impossible to put back together again.
He commed the drinkbot for another beer. Since he could not work out how to keep his promises, he would do the next best thing, what losers had done since the dawn of time. He would let ethanol weave its magic and get blind, stinking drunk.
Maybe the answer would come to him.
Friday, June 22, 2401, UD
Offices of the Supreme Council for the
Preservation of the Faith, McNair
When the Defense Council meeting broke up, Polk waved the councillor for intelligence over.
“Yes, Chief Councillor?” Morris Kando said, looking warily at Polk.
“Helfort.”
Kando stifled a groan. Polk’s interest in the man bordered on the psychotic. “What about him, sir?”
“I’ve just seen the holovids of him getting even more medals for kicking us in the ass. Kraa! How many months is it I’ve been asking for you to terminate the little bastard? I’ll tell you, Councillor. Too many, far too many.”
“Sir,” Kando protested, “it’s not easy. We’re wasting our money: Our contacts inside the Fed Fleet have nothing new to say no matter how much we wine and dine them, and bribing the Fed trashpress is not working anymore. They’ve found new stories to chase; Helfort is yesterday’s news. He’s practically disappeared. We know he is under constant security surveillance. We cannot get near him, and even the dumbest Fed crook refuses to have a go, no matter how much money we wave under their noses. They remember what happened last time.”
Polk scowled. “So you’ve told me … a thousand times. Well, the way I see it, if you can’t get to him, get him to come to you. There has to be a way to make him break cover, Councillor, and I suggest you find it and quickly. My patience is running out fast.”
“Sir.”
Friday, June 29, 2401, UD