Polk reappeared. “You can believe what Colonel Hartspring says,” he said, “if only because I will bring the full might and power of the Hammer Worlds to ensure that he succeeds. Goodbye, Michael.”
The holovid stopped; before Michael could do anything to prevent it, the words “File Deleted” appeared on the screen. “Goddammit,” he swore, jumping to his feet. “Now what the fuck do I do?”
That was the worst thing. There was nothing, not a damn thing, he could do, and he knew it. What Polk and Hartspring planned to do was the most exquisite torture imaginable. And the torture started now, and it would continue until the day he was taken out and killed.
If I ever get out of here, he vowed, I will hunt the pair of you down and kill you both.
There was only problem: He had absolutely no idea how to win his freedom, and until he did, that promise was as empty as the rest of his life.
Friday, December 5, 2403, UD
Federal Supermax Prison, Foundation City, Terranova planet
Michael stared out of the plasglass window in his cell. It had been-he couldn’t be bothered to work it out exactly-months since his appeal had started its laborious journey through the courts, a process never designed to be fast and slowed further by the fact that the Federated Worlds had not executed anyone in living memory. To say those involved were being cautious was a serious understatement.
And every minute of every day, the same question ate away at his sanity: Had Polk and Hartspring succeeded? Time dragged past; not knowing the answer had stripped the life out of him. He was an empty shell, devoid of hope. All he did was exist, a man borne along by forces over which he had no control, forces utterly committed to his destruction.
He swore softly at the prospect of another day the same as the one before and the one before that, each new day dragging past with the same dreary predictability, grinding down what little of his humanity remained.
The anger that had sustained him through the early days, that had fueled his hope that there would be some way out of the trap laid for him by Admiral Jaruzelska’s betrayal, had long gone. Even the bitter mix of despair, frustration, and guilt that had followed had not lasted, leached away by the dreary monotony of living a life waiting for death.
Outside his cell, there was nothing new to look at: the same grassy exercise area secured by a double fence of razor wire 3 meters high topped with floodlights and surveillance holocams. Beyond lay more grass and yet more wire, a distant maglev line the only evidence that life went on in the real world.
At the best of times, Michael hated it. Today, it was a dismal sight after days of rain had drained from a leaden sky. It was so depressing that he wouldn’t have needed much encouragement to finish it all himself. Not that he could, of course; the never-ending surveillance made sure of that.
“You have a visitor,” the squawk box on the wall said. “Stand away from the door.”
Michael sighed and did as he’d been told. The door opened, and he was waved forward; surrounded by guards, he followed the familiar path down the corridor to the interview room, too dispirited to ask who had come to see him. “I really am a dead man walking,” he muttered under his breath. He managed a fleeting smile. Never was a cliche so true, because he might as well have been dead.
He hoped his parents hadn’t come to see him. The stress and uncertainty of the appeal process was tearing them both apart, and Michael knew that nothing he could say or do could help them. Their visits had become so difficult that he had asked them not to come anymore.
But occasionally there was one emotion that troubled him. He tried not to think about the future. Most of the time he succeeded. When he failed, the thought of waited for him was frightening, made worse because he knew what his death would do to those who loved him: his mom and dad and his sister, Sam. And more than any of those, there was Anna, still stuck on Commitment fighting the Hammers, something the people of the Federated Worlds were too gutless to do.
He could only hope that she was still alive, that she had not been taken by Hartspring.
The door to the interview room opened, and his lawyer walked in. He liked Erica Malvern, but her relentless energy was wearing, as was her unshakable confidence that Michael’s death sentence would be commuted.
“Morning, Michael,” Malvern said, a bright smile on her face as always.
“Erica. What’s happening?”
“I’ve just had word that the president has made her decision on your appeal for clemency, so we should know where we stand any time now.”
Gut-wrenching fear tore at Michael’s stomach. “No idea what the decision is?” he said, his voice a half-strangled croak.
“Sorry, no. By Federal law, the president’s decision must be given to you in writing. But hang in there; I’m sure President Diouf will do the right thing.”
“I was sure of that too once, but now …” His voice trailed off into silence. “So all we can do is wait,” he went on.
“I’m afraid so. We’ve done everything that we can.”
“What’s the trashpress saying?”
“Michael, Michael,” Malvern protested. “Don’t go there. You know the outcome they want, so why torture yourself?”
“Bastards,” Michael muttered. “When the Hammers take over, they’ll have a lot to answer for. What’s the view in Fleet?”
Malvern frowned. “That’s a tough one.”
“I know you can’t go around conducting opinion polls, Erica, but surely you have some feel.”
“Well, as best I can tell, the more senior the person, the more unhappy they are. They don’t like the concessions Moderator Ferrero has made to the Hammers. That damn peace treaty’s so very one-sided. And it’s no secret the Hammers are leaning hard on the government to have your sentence carried out.”
“I’m surprised Ferrero hasn’t just handed me over,” he said. “I know Chief Councillor Polk wants me in front of a DocSec firing squad almost as badly as he wants to be Emperor Jeremiah the First.”
The door behind Malvern opened. A guard stuck his head in. “Can I have a word, counselor?” he asked.
“Sure. Back in a second,” Malvern said as she slipped out.
“Okay,” Michael said. He wondered what was going on. Then it hit him, and hard: the president’s decision had arrived. “Please don’t let me down,” Michael whispered.
Malvern was gone a very long time; Michael’s nerves were a mess by the time she reappeared, a slim envelope in her hand. “Is that what I think it is?” he croaked.
“Yes. Come on!” Malvern shouted to the unseen guards. “Get this damn screen up.”
“Sorry, counselor,” a voice said. The screen opened a fraction, and Malvern slipped the envelope through the gap. Michael took it with hands slick with cold sweat.
“Michael,” Malvern said, her voice soft. “Open it.”
Michael shook his head. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Erica; I just can’t.”
“You want me to?”
“Not really,” Michael replied, misery splashed all across his face. “I don’t want to know.”
“You need to know. Pass it back.”
Michael did as he was told and watched Malvern tear the envelope open, his heart hammering in his chest with painful intensity. She scanned the letter and then looked up at him, the tears in her eyes sparkling in the harsh light. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice breaking. “The president has turned down your appeal for clemency. Sentence will be carried out one week from today.”
“No!” Michael hissed. “She can’t have. I trusted her.” He slumped back in his seat, and his head dropped into his hands. “I’ve been screwed.,” he said, his voice strengthening as anger pushed fear aside. “Admiral Jaruzelska … that fucking judge … and now Diouf. They’ve betrayed me, all of them. Goddamn the bastards all to hell.”