The Final Battle (38 page)

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. No 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.

The place was a shambles. The miasma of defeat hung thick in the air.

Michael stopped in the center of the atrium. He looked up and turned slowly on his heel. The hubris was breathtaking. He stood at the center of Chief Councillor Polk’s megalomaniac universe. It was hard to believe.

Except Polk wasn’t there anymore. Nobody was. The place was empty. Everyone had gone.

Anger erupted into incandescent fury. The assault rifle in Michael’s hands exploded into life; he emptied the entire magazine in a sustained burst at the sunburst. Hypersonic rounds chewed a jagged path of destruction across its golden frame. Shards of metal and fragments of granite blasted outward to tumble and spin through the air.

“You are such a dumbass,” Michael said, angry with himself for losing control. He dumped the empty magazine and slotted home a new one. If any of Polk’s people were around, they’d be—

“Welcome, Lieutenant,” a voice boomed. “I was just thinking about you.”

Polk
, Michael thought, spinning around, searching for the man.
It’s Polk
. But there was nobody to be seen. “Is that you, Polk?” he shouted. “Where are you? Hartspring said you’d left.”

“That fool! I’m in my office. Where else would the chief councillor be at a time like this? Take the stairs. You’ll find me on the other side of the building.”

“I’m on my way,” Michael shouted, elated now. He had him. The blood roared in his ears. “And when I get to you, I’ll blow your goddamned head off.”

“Now, now,” Polk chided. “Let’s not be too hasty.”

“Just watch me,” Michael muttered, half convinced that he had slipped into a crazy parallel universe where enormously powerful men like Polk sat alone amid the ruins of empire even as retribution bore down on them.

It was insane. If the Hammer of Kraa was good at anything, it was producing fanatics, so where were they all? Surely Polk could have scraped up a few to protect him.

Michael started up the stairs, nerves jangling in anticipation. Reaching the top, he checked every door and every passageway with care to make certain he was not walking into an ambush. But still there was no sign of life.

There was no mistaking Polk’s offices when he came to them. The embossed gold sign was hard to miss. Michael moved past the security desk and into a sprawling reception area studded with chairs and low tables. He walked on and into a second reception room. This one was smaller, more intimate, the lighting soft. He followed a short corridor with rooms off to both sides, some elaborately furnished and some set out as simple meeting rooms. The corridor led to a sprawling open-plan office. It was as stark and functional as the public rooms had been relaxed and comfortable. Michael headed for a door on the far side. He eased it open with the toe of his boot.

Instinct had Michael’s rifle up before his brain had worked out that the man waiting inside posed no threat. “You!” Michael hissed between gritted teeth.

It was Polk.

He held his arms out wide, hands empty, a disarming smile on his face. He was smaller than Michael remembered, his lean, wiry body dressed in a pale gray one-piece jumpsuit and sporting a small Hammer sunburst in gold on his lapel.

“Oh, for Kraa’s sake,” Polk said, “put that gun down. Come into my office. Come on, Michael. It’s over, so let’s at least try to be civilized.”

“On your face, Polk, with your arms out, and do it unless you want me to shoot you.”

Polk sighed. “You’ll find I’m clean,” he said, dropping to the floor.

“We’ll see.”

Polk lay there in silence while Michael searched every last square centimeter of the man’s body, ignoring Polk’s muffled protests. “Okay,” he said finally, “you can get up.”

“I told you I was clean,” Polk said, getting back to his feet and brushing himself down. “Come on; my office is through here. We can talk. I’d like that.”

“Go through. I’ll be right behind you, and if I think you’re about to pull anything, I’ll blow your brains out.”

“Michael!” Polk protested. “Please relax.”

An enormous plasglass window dominated the chief councillor’s office. It looked out across luxuriant gardens below a dust-filled afternoon sky thick with towering columns of smoke. It was sparsely furnished: a desk empty of anything but a comm box, two armchairs flanking a coffee table, a pair of Hammer flags, a wall-mounted holovid screen, a small coffeebot in a recess. Nothing personal, Michael noted: no memorabilia, no paintings, no pictures. It was strange. It looked as if Polk rented the place by the hour.

“What’s through there?” Michael said, pointing to a door in one of the walls.

“My private rooms, the VIP entrance, and the elevator. Up to the lander pad. Down to the garage, war room, and emergency shelters.”

“Show me.”

Again Polk sighed. “There’s nobody out there. Everyone’s gone. It’s just you and me.”

“Move!”

Polk was right. The place was empty.

“Okay,” Michael said. He allowed himself to relax a fraction. There might be fifty Hammers holed up in a room he hadn’t spotted, but there were limits to what he could do on his own. “Let’s go sit down. No, not your desk—there.” He pointed to one of the armchairs. “And keep your hands where I can see them.”

“Fine, but first some coffee?”

“Yes, please,” Michael said, struck by the sheer absurdity of it all. Coffee and small talk with a power-crazed lunatic. It was beyond absurd. “You know why I’m here, don’t you?” he asked as Polk placed two steaming mugs on the table and sat down.

“Of course,” Polk replied. “You want to kill me.”

“I do, and I will. I wanted to look you in the face first.”

“Well, we’ll see.” Polk paused, a thoughtful look on his face. “I had it all, you know,” he went on, “the chief councillorship, my councillors where I wanted them, you Feds on the ropes.” He stopped and shook his head. “You know,” he said a moment later, “I’ve never met anyone quite as stupid as that Ferrero woman. Did she ever stop to think what she was doing, what she was risking?”

“I don’t think she did.”

“No, she didn’t. We were only months away from getting our new antimatter plant. Nothing could have stopped the Hammer of Kraa. I was going to be humanspace’s first emperor, you know. I got so close … and then you came along.” Polk’s face, which had been animated up to then, soured into a bitter scowl.

“You give me too much credit.”

Polk shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. You were the catalyst. Without you, the Feds and the
NRA
would have screwed around until it was too late. You made things happen. That’s your genius.” He stopped, a faraway look in his eyes. “I would have destroyed the Federated Worlds, you know. I’d already given the orders. The operation was scheduled for December. Did you know that?” Polk’s eyes glittered. He had a half smile on his face; his tongue flickered across thin, bloodless lips. “The Hammer fleet would have reduced your planets to smoking wastelands.”

For the first time, Michael saw the evil in the man. It was a terrifying sight. With sudden certainty, he knew he would not live to see Anna again. Polk’s depraved soul would never allow it.

“I’d have enjoyed that,” Polk went on. He shrugged as if the destruction of an entire system and the deaths of millions were matters of no great import. “I hate you Feds. I always have.”