Helfort's War Book 4: The Battle for Commitment Planet (21 page)

“Anna!” Michael said, trying not to let his frustration show. “It wasn’t like that. They all had their own reasons; they all made up their own minds. Yes, the message from Hartspring was the trigger, the catalyst, but after that … well, the whole business assumed a life of its own; it became something much bigger. It stopped being just about me trying to save you.”

“You can say that again,” Anna said with a shake of her head. “Honestly, Michael, never in my wildest dreams would I ever imagine something like this. Never! Shit … why is nothing ever straightforward with you? Here we are”—Anna waved a hand at the three landers tucked out of sight underneath gray micromesh chromaflage netting—“in the middle of nowhere, stuck on this dump of a Hammer planet with no way home, and what’s the plan?” She shook her head again. “The plan,” she said with a sharp, mocking laugh. “What plan? Oh, yes, that plan. The ‘join the NRA and spend the rest of our lives fighting the Hammers until we all get killed’ plan!” She shook her head despairingly. “What a prospect. At least we were warm and safe in 5209 … well, apart from me, that is.”

“Anna, look, it’s not that ba—”

“Not that bad? Is that what you’re telling me? It’s not that bad? Well,” Anna said fiercely, “it is that bad. The bloody NRA are what? Just second-rate guerrillas fighting a government that’s a thousand times stronger than they are in a tiny, pointless war that’ll never end. Doesn’t matter what we do. Their war will never end, and we’ll never get home … never. Even
if there’s ever a prisoner exchange, guess what? The Hammers would prefer to die than let us be part of that. I know how the fuckers think. They’ll never stop hunting us, and when they get us, they’ll kill us all. We’re screwed,” she said, scrambling to her feet, “thanks to you and your team of crazies. We’re screwed. So bloody well don’t expect gratitude from me … or anyone else you took out of 5209.”

“Anna,” Michael protested, “you’ve got it wrong.”

“Have I?” she snapped. “Have I got it wrong? No, I don’t think so. You’re the one who’s got it wrong. How could you do this? Where’s your sense of duty? What happened to the oath you took when you were commissioned? Your sense of honor?”

“There’re more important things,” he muttered, all too aware of how lame he must sound.

Anna snorted, a snort dripping with contempt and derision. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, there are.”

“Well, not for me there aren’t. I don’t believe it, Michael. I don’t believe that you would do all this just to save me. And to drag the rest of your crew along with you? That’s absolutely unforgivable.”

“They had their reasons, Anna, and those had nothing to do with you.”

“Maybe so, but you started this and they followed. You’re responsible, and stop trying to pretend otherwise.”

“Hey,” Michael protested, “that’s not fair.”

“I don’t care. No matter how much you love me, no matter what that psychopath Hartspring planned to do, it’s just plain wrong to risk so many lives to save me. That’s what’s wrong, Michael. And Jesus! I almost forgot,” she added, her voice dripping sarcasm. “You destroyed three fully operational dreadnoughts to do it. Unbelievable.

“Don’t say another word. Just piss off. Whatever your reasons, whatever your screwed-up mind tells you, whatever you think makes all this right, I don’t want to hear it.” With that, Anna walked away.

Michael sat, crushed into immobility. Anna’s reaction was a million light-years from the response he’d expected. Suddenly, doubt swamped him. What if Anna was right? What if the rest
of the Feds saw things the same way? The last thing he needed was open conflict between the rescuers and the rescued.

Goddamn her, he thought as a rush of anger swept away all the doubt; goddamn her to hell. Why could she not see what he and the rest of the
Redwood
s had risked to get her and the rest of the POWs out of J-5209? That Hartspring’s threat was only the catalyst for what happened? That the
Redwood
s had their own reasons? Why could she not see all of that? Damn, damn, damn, he said to himself. Damn Hartspring, damn the Hammers, damn Anna Cheung, damn everything. If they did not like what he had done, tough. It was done, and they could all go fuck themselves if it did not sit well with their precious views of what constituted duty, honor, and the rest of that Fleet bullshit. They all might be happy to sit while Rome burned, but he was not.

Still seething with anger, he spotted Chief Bienefelt making her way over to him.

“Matti.”

“Lieutenant Cheung doesn’t look too happy. And you don’t, either.”

“I’m bloody well not,” he snapped.

“Hey! Don’t take it out on me.”

“Sorry, Matti. Anna thinks what I’ve done is so wrong she’s never going to speak to me again.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “Don’t tell me the rest of them think we’re a bunch of crazies.”

“Well,” Bienefelt said, “it’s fair to say most do”—Michael’s heart sank, the last of his anger fading away as he contemplated the prospect of having to face over four hundred angry Fed spacers hell-bent on hanging him from the nearest tree—“but that’s not the whole story, not by a long shot.”

“It’s not?”

“No,” Bienefelt said, shaking her head. “There are some exceptions, of course, there always are, but most of the spacers … no, no, make that almost all the spacers I’ve spoken to are happy to be out of 5209. Their guards didn’t treat them that badly, but not well enough to make them want to stay. The way this damn war’s been going, they thought they’d be there for years. They’re not fools, but—”

“There always has to be a ‘but,’ ” Michael said, dejected.

“Yes, there does, and it’s this. Everything depends on how the NRA reacts. If it’s positive, if the NRA can convince our people that its war is worth fighting, they’ll be there.”

Bienefelt paused for a moment before continuing. “You need to remember one thing, sir. Most of the people we rescued come from Commodore Kumoro’s task force. Do I need to remind you what the Hammers put them through at Salvation, how many of their shipmates died?”

Michael shook his head; she did not. No matter how long he lived, he would never forget the Hammers’ ruthless destruction of Kumoro’s task group: eleven ships along with most of their crews blown to hell and beyond in the space of a few bloody minutes. Michael had never witnessed an operation so ill advised, an operation none of the ships involved was ever going to survive, the tragedy made unbearable for him by the knowledge that Anna might not have survived, either.

“Didn’t think so,” Bienefelt said. “Suffice it to say that Kumoro’s people owe the Hammers big time, and I think they’d enjoy making a payment.”

“Umm … well, let’s hope Anna comes around.”

“I’m sure she will,” Bienefelt said. “Anyway, sir, can’t stay here yakking. Duty calls. Captain Adrissa requires your presence.”

“Oh, shit. Any idea how she sees things?”

“No, sir, sorry. She’s been closeted with her two senior officers since you finished the briefing.”

Michael dragged air deep into his lungs to steel himself. “Where can I find the good captain?”

“
Alley Kat
’s crew mess.”

“Okay. Wish me luck.”

“No need, sir. You’ll be fine.”

I wish, Michael thought, absolutely certain that he was not going to be anything of the sort.

He made his way past
Widowmaker
and
Hell Bent
to where
Alley Kat
sat, her massive bulk tucked close to the rock wall at the head of the ravine. Walking up the ramp, he crossed
Alley Kat
’s cargo bay and its mounds of stores before climbing the ladder to the crew mess. Knocking on the door, he went into
the cramped compartment. The three officers were seated behind the pull-down table.

“You wanted to see me, Captain?”

“Yes, I did. Take a seat, Lieutenant.”

Michael sat; he studied the faces of the officers for any clues to what would come next. There were none; their faces were impassive. Michael knew Adrissa only by reputation: a straightforward, no-nonsense officer, unpopular with the brass for a tendency to speak her mind, competent, more respected than liked. The other two, Commander Georg Rasmussen, captain of the now-destroyed
Yataghan
, and Lieutenant Commander Pravar Solanki, captain of
Dunxi
, he knew only by name.

Adrissa looked him straight in the face for what seemed like a lifetime before speaking. “So, Lieutenant,” she said at last, “this is one hell of a situation you’ve dropped us into.”

Michael bobbed his head in apology. “Yes, sir. It is.”

“We’ve read the brief you supplied us, and it’s all very clear. The question is what we”—Adrissa waved a hand at Rasmussen and Solanki—“do next. The problem is that none of us have ever been in a situation like this. More to the point, we don’t know anyone else in Fleet history who has, either.”

“No, sir.”

“So,” Adrissa said, “we have no precedents to help us decide what we do next. Setting aside naked self-interest, that leaves us with two guides: Fleet Regulations and pragmatism. If we follow Fleet Regulations, it’s clear what we should do: It is our duty as Fleet officers to have you”—her voice hardened noticeably—“arrested and court-martialed. At which point there is no doubt you’d be found guilty and sentenced to death. And since we’re in the presence of the enemy, I’d be within the regulations to approve that sentence, and believe me, Lieutenant Helfort, I would have no compunction about having you shot, none at all, not after what you’ve done.”

“Yes, sir,” Michael said, wondering just how much worse his day could get.

“The problem with that strategy is that while there are what … let me see, yes, let’s say sixty of you and over four hundred of us, you’re the ones with the guns, and it hasn’t escaped
our notice that your marine friends have been slow to meet our requests for weapons.”

“I know that, sir,” Michael said, “and I’m sorry, but we needed to see how things panned out.”

“Hmmm,” Adrissa said, “we thought so. If we cannot enforce Fleet Regulations, that leaves us with pragmatism, and it’s clear what it tells us to do. Ignore the mutiny, endorse your plan to join the NRA, fight alongside them, pray like hell the day isn’t too far off when they push the whole rotten Hammer government into the sea, and then we get to go home. That about sum up your grand plan, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir,” Michael said, acutely aware how half-assed Adrissa made it all sound. Half-assed? Piss-weak more like it. “That pretty much sums it up.” And that’s because there’s nothing more to add, he wanted to say but did not.

“Yes, it does. Not much of a plan, I have to say, though I admire, we all admire, what you’ve achieved so far. However misplaced your loyalties, Lieutenant, your Operation Gladiator will go down in the annals of warfare. If you ignore the costs, it is one of the most outstanding military operations of all time.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me,” Adrissa snapped. “You made a bad decision—nothing will ever change that—and whatever your motives, they cannot vindicate what you have done. Never!”

Michael bit his tongue, choking back his response. He needed Adrissa on his side, and if that was too big an ask, neutral would do fine. “No, sir,” he said.

“So here’s the deal,” Adrissa went on, “and it’s the only deal I’m prepared to offer. Should any one of us ever find ourselves in a position where we can return you and your accomplices to the Federated Worlds for trial, we will arrest you. That’s our duty and is nonnegotiable. However, until that time, we need to accept the realities of the situation we find ourselves in. So we will be telling our people that they are free to decide what to do next. The one thing they can’t do is turn themselves back over to the Hammers. They can stay under my command doing whatever we’ll be doing. Or they can join the NRA and Nationalists. It’ll be their choice, and I won’t seek to influence
any of them one way or the other, nor, Lieutenant, will you. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Michael said, his spirits rising fast. He would take the threat of arrest—Adrissa’s chances of making good on the threat were minimal, to say the least—over outright opposition any day. “That’s understood.”

“Good. Now that the formalities are out of the way, there are a couple of things I’d like to say.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Yes. First, I meant what I said about Gladiator. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

“It was a team effort, sir. They’re good people: smart, sharp, motivated.”

“Indeed,” Adrissa said with a faint smile, “though you left out ‘misguided.’ But I digress. Second, we’ve watched the vidmail sent to you by … what was his name?”

“Hartspring, sir. Colonel Erwin Hartspring. Doctrinal Security. Nasty piece of work.”

“Yes, him. A lowlife piece of shit if ever I saw one. I can’t begin to understand how you kept going with that hanging over you, and while I can never condone your actions, I can at least say that I sympathize. It is not a predicament I ever want to find myself in. Finally, your people. I can understand their feelings, and though it would be most unwise of me to say so publicly, I must say that I share many of their concerns about the conduct of this war.”

“So do I,” Rasmussen cut in, the bitterness obvious. “
Yataghan
was a good ship. She died for no good reason, and so did far too many of my crew.”

“And me,” Solanki added. “
Dunxi
carried a crew of one hundred ninety-eight. Only thirty-six made it to the lifepods, and two of them died during interrogation. Bastard Hammers, bastard Fleet, bastard politi—”

“Enough,” Adrissa snapped. “Enough, Commander,” she continued, her voice softening. “Don’t say things you may regret. You’ll get your chance, I promise you.”

Solanki nodded, though Michael saw the anger burning ice-cold in his eyes.

“One last thing,” Adrissa said. “You may be mutineers, but
the rest of us are not. So, effective immediately, I’m ordering the establishment of Fleet Detachment, Commitment Planet. Um, let’s see … yes, let’s call it FLTDETCOMM for short, shall we? I think it will be a good thing if you and your people agreed to be part of the detachment under my command. What the detachment’s mission will be is something I’ll leave for another day. You happy about that?”