And even if he managed to kill Polk, that still left the small problem of getting back out alive.
You’re making this up as you go along, Michael told himself. You have no fucking plan and no fucking idea. He would have to take things one step at a time, he decided. Much as he hated winging it, what choice did he have?
But I will find Polk, he promised himself, and then I will kill him, and if I can’t do that without getting myself killed, I should-I will walk away.
There was too much to live for not to.
The mobibot swept around a long, sweeping bend. Ahead the road climbed up to the Supreme Council complex. It braked hard and stopped.
“Shiiiit,” Michael hissed. He was looking at what once must have been an imposing collection of buildings: classical in style, massive, designed to overawe the people of the Hammer Worlds, each one a monument to the brutality of Hammer power. Most had been reduced to blast-shattered shells that were sending thin skeins of smoke drifting into the sky. He’d thought the NRA would leave the place alone, and for good reason. This place was the single most heavily defended site on all of the Hammer Worlds. That might well have been true, but it hadn’t stopped ENCOMM from sending in the landers to give the place one hell of a pasting.
Except for one wing, the Supreme Council building, the heart of the Hammer of Kraa, remained standing. I hope you’re in there, Polk, Michael thought, because I’ve come a long way to see you.
The mobibot could go no farther. The blockhouses flanking the entrance through the outermost ring of razor wire had been blown apart, scattering ceramcrete rubble across the roadway as it threaded its way through an elaborate chicane of dragon’s teeth, massive pyramids of ceramcrete big enough to stop an Aqaba main battle tank. And it was not just rubble, Michael saw. There were bodies everywhere in the black uniforms and gold brassards of DocSec’s elite 201st Assault Regiment, the unit responsible for protecting the Hammer’s senior apparatchiks. For a moment Michael considered trying to clear a way through, but that idea died when he spotted a double row of meter-high metal bollards spanning the road. He’d have to lower them before the mobibot could get past, and because the controls probably were buried in one of the wrecked blockhouses, he did not fancy his chances.
Time to walk, Michael, he said to himself.
He opened the door of the bot and eased himself out, rifle swinging from side to side. He looked around. The only Hammers he could see were dead ones. Where was everybody? This checkpoint might have been trashed, but there had to be more DocSec troops around if Polk was still holed up inside the complex. He swore under his breath. Where was the 201st?
Hard as he searched, there was still no sign of anyone. Michael swore some more. Hartspring had been right. № 201st meant no Polk, and without Polk he was wasting his time.
What the hell, he said to himself after thinking things through. I don’t have anything better to do, so I might as well go have a look, and if Polk has already abandoned McNair, then I’ll call it a day.
Staying low, Michael scuttled over to the shattered remains of the nearest blockhouse and peered in. It was a charnel house. The sight and smell of what was left of the DocSec troopers caught inside made him retch. Forcing his body back under control, he dropped to his stomach and squirmed past the jagged remnants of the building until he could see up the roadway to the next checkpoint. It too had been trashed, and so had the one beyond it. With all the concentration he could muster, Michael scanned the area for any signs of life. But nothing moved amid the luxuriant flower-studded foliage, not even the leaves, the humid air still and thick with dust and smoke from the battle raging across the city.
The road up into the complex was horribly exposed. Michael hated the idea of using it, but he had no better option. He’d read the ENCOMM intelligence reports. Ten meters on either side of the road, where the greenery started, the ground was seeded with antipersonnel and antitank land mines backed up by laser autocannons positioned to provide interlocking fields of fire. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the entire area was patrolled by groundbots-the NRA called them pigs-with optical sensors linked to pulsed lasers. Without the right IFF patches, Michael’s chances of getting past them were nil. If the mines didn’t get him, the pigs would.
So the road it was.
Michael took a few deep breaths to settle a sudden attack of nerves. A soft sobbing broke his concentration. He swung around. He cursed himself for not checking that the DocSec troopers littering the area were all dead.
Michael slithered back to where the wounded man lay. The trooper stared up at him. “Please … drink,” he whispered through blood-encrusted lips. He looked young and afraid; for a moment, Michael was able to forget that the man was Doctrinal Security.
Michael found a canteen and held it to the man’s mouth. The trooper drank greedily, dragging at the water in great gulps. “Thanks,” he said, letting his head fall back.
Michael leaned over him. “What’s your name, son?” he asked.
“Rossi, Lance Corporal Rossi.” The man’s voice was as soft as falling dust.
“Where’s the rest of the 201st, Corporal?”
“All gone. After the NRA smashed us … couple of hours ago, not sure.”
“What happened?”
“Everyone ran … They ran like rats; they-” Rossi broke off. A choking cough wracked his body, and fresh blood bubbled from his mouth. The scarlet froth was shocking against bloodless lips. “We didn’t know what to do,” Rossi went on when he had recovered. “They were afraid of the NRA … I’m afraid of the NRA. We were just leaving when those heretic bastards came back again. Their damn landers … blew us all to hell.”
“So who’s left? What about the chief councillor? Did he leave?”
“Don’t know … I don’t feel so …” Rossi’s voice faded away. His eyes closed. He sighed, a long sigh that took him by the hand and led him quietly into death.
“You poor bastard,” Michael murmured, getting to his feet, “even if you were a piece of DocSec shit.” He stripped the body of its armor and microgrenades. He abandoned all caution and walked up the middle of the road. Fear turned his stomach over the whole way.
Michael arrived, unchallenged and, he hoped, unseen, at the innermost ring of razor-wire fencing that protected the most senior Hammers.
How, he asked himself as he scanned the debris-littered ground around the complex, did it ever come to this?
The men who had squatted like obscene toads at the blood-soaked peak of Hammer power had gone. There was not a living soul to be seen anywhere, just more bodies. He walked through the chicane, heading for the largest of the inner compound’s buildings. A scarred brass plaque proclaimed it to be the offices of the Supreme Council for the Preservation of the Faith. It had been badly damaged, one entire wing reduced to a smoking shell, the walls pocked with cannon fire and slashed by shrapnel, glassless windows gaping empty-eyed at the world.
Michael slipped past the security point and stopped in the main entrance. A pair of impressively large doors lay on the floor, ripped off their hinges. He stopped, stunned by the arrogance of the huge atrium. The floor was black granite with flecks of gold; it was littered with splinters of glass from the roof. The far wall, also of black granite, was dominated by a Hammer of Kraa sunburst that was a full 20 meters high. Recessed lights had been arranged to strike brilliant spears of light off the beaten gold surface. Two staircases led off to left and right. Amid shattered glass and granite was the evidence of panic-stricken flight: shoes, coats, personal comms, uniforms, papers, a security briefcase complete with chain, the chairs behind the elaborate reception desk pushed away and toppled onto their backs, the desk itself thrown back against a wall, bottles, broken cups and mugs, a pot that had toppled over, spilling a dusty lake of coffee across the floor.