by Jake Elwood
The city expanded, turning from a rough-looking dark patch on the peninsula to a circular grid of streets. By the time he could make out individual buildings he knew what the shuttle's destination was. Spacecom headquarters, the grand, solemn building which had once been the Naval Academy.
It was fitting, he decided, that it would all end here in the place where it had begun. It gave things a pleasing symmetry, a sense that he had come full circle. In those same marble halls where he'd learned to be an officer he would be judged and sentenced, and likely executed.
He regretted nothing.
Deceleration pushed him deeper into his seat, and walls rose around the shuttle as it descended into the yard beside the headquarters building. Hammett felt the hint of a bump as the shuttle touched down. Then the shuttle's hatch lowered and sunlight flooded in.
He tried to move slowly as he crossed the yard. It might be his very last exposure to sunlight, after all. Hawking had its own special smell, arid and mostly sterile with a hint of brine from the distant ocean and the faintest trace of perfume from carefully tended flowers. It took him back to his days as a cadet, when every day was a fresh adventure, duty was as clear as a highway stretching out before him, and he was sure he'd have a glorious career. Hammett smiled in spite of himself, though the smile faded when they led him inside.
The marines turned him over to a squad of military police, cheerless men and women who scanned him, gave him a prisoner's jumpsuit, and directed him to a booth where he could change.
"I'd rather keep my uniform," he said without much hope.
"You can change, or you can be stripped. It's your choice."
Hammett changed into the jumpsuit.
A young military policeman with a lieutenant's stripe and all the emotion of a vending machine gestured him into a chair in a tiny office and read out a long, preposterous list of charges. He led with treason and mutiny, but there were dozens more, ranging from insubordination to cowardice to misappropriation of Spacecom property. When he was done he pushed a thick document across the desk and said, "Sign each page."
Hammett stared at him.
The lieutenant leaned forward. "Sign. Each. Page."
"No."
"Sign it, or you'll be made to sign it."
That made Hammett laugh out loud. "And how are you going to do that? Get a couple of goons to hold my fingers? Press them against the pen?" He leaned back in his chair. "That sounds thoroughly entertaining. Why don't you go ahead and do that?"
The young man's eyebrows drew together. "There are serious consequences to noncooperation."
Hammett laughed again. "You know what I've been charged with. They'll find me guilty, too. What consequences could you possibly threaten me with?"
The lieutenant changed tack. "Being stubborn can only make things worse for you. It's a simple enough request. Is there a reason you won't cooperate?"
"Pure contrariness," Hammett said cheerfully. He gestured at the document. "I don't care about your paperwork. What would my signature mean? Absolutely nothing, that's what. It's pointless bureaucracy. I've put up with rules and bullshit from the military for thirty years." He spread his hands. "Now? I don't have to." He lowered his hands and stopped smiling. "And you can't make me."
The two men locked gazes for thirty seconds or so. The lieutenant was both an officer and a cop, and he was good at stern glares. Hammett, though, was in a whole different league, and eventually the kid realized it. His fingers moved as he accessed his implants, and a couple of MPs came in.
"Put him in a holding cell."
The cell was tiny, but big enough to contain a bunk. Hammett stretched out and sank immediately into a long-overdue sleep. He woke with a military policeman shaking his shoulder. "Sir. Captain Hammett. Wake up, Sir."
"That's Admiral Hammett." Hammett sat up and yawned. "What's going on?"
"You're being moved, Sir."
It was only when he reached the ground floor and the guards on either side turned toward the main entrance that Hammett realized he was being moved to another building. "Where we going?" Spacecom didn't have any other planetside facilities.
"We're taking a car, Sir," said the guard on his left. Which wasn't much of an answer, Hammett reflected. I guess I'll find out soon enough. He let the guards guide him toward the massive front doors. The doors were closed, which struck Hammett as odd. They were ponderous doors, grand-looking things, but a pain to move. They normally stood open during the day.
By the angle of the sunlight coming through the windows in the front wall, it was late morning in Hawking. The building was open, then. Was this some new security feature?
Half a dozen marine stood just inside the big doors, another new feature that made Hammett's eyebrows rise. Well, he'd been through a bloody mutiny on the Alexander. Perhaps a few extra marines around the premises made sense.
A strong-looking marine put a shoulder to one front door and pushed. The door swung open and a wall of sound washed in. Angry voices rose in a clamor, the words impossible to make out, the tone only too clear.
"I see people are happy you guys won the war," Hammett said.
His guards didn't answer, just kept advancing. A couple of marines stepped outside. There were more marines in front of the building, a dozen at least, standing shoulder to shoulder and facing a massive crowd of angry civilians.
Hammett saw people of every age, jammed together, shouting or shaking fists. Holographic signs filled the air above with slogans like 'No EDF' and 'Free The Press'. One sign said 'Remember Montreal', which struck Hammett as good advice. Protesters had died when a Spacecom ship had fired a missile at protesters in Montreal. This crowd didn't seem worried, though.
Everyone wore white. Not from head to toe, but he saw white shirts and coats, or improvised head scarves made from strips of white cloth. Quite a few people covered their faces with white bandanas. It was, he supposed, the farthest thing from the black armbands of the EDF.
The crowd seemed to recognize Hammett. Angry shouts turned into a roar, and the crowd edged forward. The marines braced themselves, hands going to weapons belts.
A marine sergeant stopped Hammett and his escort in the doorway. He gestured behind them, and Hammett's guards reluctantly drew him back. The door swung shut, reducing the angry roar to a rumble.
"The car will never make it through the crowd," the sergeant said wearily. "You better take him to the Ira Hayes door. I'll call the driver."
They took him across the wide lobby, the noise of the crowd fading until their echoing footsteps were the only sound. They brought him down a long corridor Hammett had never explored, and came at last to a small side door with yet another marine guarding it. "Car's just pulling up," said the marine, and opened the door.
A dark blue ground car with military police markings rolled up, and strong hands pushed Hammett into the back seat. His guards sat on either side of him, not speaking, as the car rolled down a narrow alley and turned onto the broad street that fronted the building. A handful of people on the edge of the crowd saw the car and let out a shout. Someone threw a fist-sized object, and Hammett flinched back. Something splattered against the window beside him, and he spent a puzzled moment trying to figure out how the window had ended up covered in blood. Then he spotted seeds in the mess and understood. The protester had thrown a tomato.
The car turned and quickly left the protesters behind. The man on Hammett's left pressed a finger to one ear, listening, then murmured to the driver. By the sound of it, there were blockades and protests all over the city. The man did his best to guide the driver around the worst of it while Hammett sat and watched, trying to work out where they were headed.
At last they turned onto a wide boulevard, the median in the center decorated with stone planters boiling over with scarlet flowers. Directly ahead, Hammett could see a grand building decorated with pillars a good four meters across. A massive statue of Justice stood in front of the building, her skin green with the patina of aged copper.
"You're taking me to the courthouses?" Hammett said. "I thought I'd get a court martial."
The man on his right glanced at Hammett, then surprised him by speaking. "You're getting a civilian trial. Things are … complicated."
"Complicated how?" Hammett demanded. "Is this one of those 'politically sensitive' situations I've been hearing about?" When the guard didn't respond he said, "Or is it a security concern? Are they afraid the military might not stand for it if you hold my show trial at Spacecom?"
The guard gave him a look that was almost sympathetic. "You're asking questions that go way above my pay grade, Admiral. They just tell me where to pick you up and where to drop you off."
Hammett nodded.
"Look," said the man. "The word is, you've been out there fighting the good fight. I appreciate it. I respect it. I'm still going to deliver you to the courthouse, but I'm hoping you won't make things difficult, because I'm hoping to deliver you in good health."
Hammett couldn't quite smother a grin. "Fair enough," he said. "I'll behave."
The guard nodded. "And I'll do everything in my power to make sure you get there safely, with none of your rights violated."
"Uh-oh," said the driver.
Hammett looked forward, and felt his mouth go dry. Armed figures ran into the street ahead, men and women in the baggy tan uniforms of the United Worlds army. The uniform had changed since Hammett had seen it last; the sleeves had black EDF armbands. Each soldier, though, had tied a white rag around one arm. There were at least thirty of them, and they filled this side of the boulevard. Traffic slowed, and the guard to Hammett's left muttered a curse.
The car began to accelerate, and Hammett braced himself, sliding a bit lower in his seat, expecting gunfire. If the driver thought to ram his way through the line, though, it wasn't going to work. Too many cars were stopping ahead, forming a barrier of vehicles two or three deep. To the left was the center of the boulevard, an unbroken row of stone planters. The driver veered right instead. The way was blocked, though, by other cars rolling to a stop. The driver put the car in reverse, honked in frustration at the cars crowding up behind, and started to back up.
A squad of soldiers hurried forward, two groups of three, jogging between the rows of cars. They reached Hammett's car in moments, three on the left and three on the right. Any hope he might have had that the roadblock was a coincidence vanished when their weapons covered the car. They carried blast carbines, powerful weapons that would do devastating damage at close range.
"Stand down," said the guard on the left. None of them could have done much anyway; they were all unarmed, standard procedure for cops who went within arm's reach of prisoners. Both guards and the driver lifted their hands.
"Open the door," demanded a gruff voice outside.
The guards exchanged glances. "They won't hurt him," said the man on the right. "They're on his side."
"I'm not worried about him," his partner retorted. "I'm worried about us."
"It's not like we can keep them out." The guard on the right reached over and popped his door open.
Strong hands caught the man and yanked him out of the car. A peremptory hand reached in through the door and gestured at Hammett.
"Go," said the guard on the left. "I doubt they'll hurt you."
Hammett nodded and slid over. He expected to be yanked out unceremoniously, but the soldiers surprised him by edging back to give him room. He climbed out and stood, trying to read the situation.
The roadblock was dissolving, soldiers advancing through the rows of vehicles to surround Hammett's car. Frightened drivers took the opportunity to race away, while vehicles behind Hammett's car did their best to edge backward.
The military policeman lay face-down on the tarmac. A soldier knelt with a knee in his back, the muzzle of her carbine almost touching the back of the man's head. She kept her eyes on the prisoner. Other soldiers scanned the vehicles around them, or watched windows and rooftops.
"This way, Sir," said a man with sergeant's stripes on his sleeves. "We've got a vehicle waiting."
"Release him," Hammett said, gesturing at the man on the ground.
The sergeant said, "I don't know if that's a good-"
Hammett didn't speak, just stared at the man.
"Right. Private, release the prisoner."
"Let him get back in his car," Hammett said. "Let the car go." He tried to make it sound like a suggestion—a strong suggestion—since the sergeant was under no obligation to obey his orders.
The sergeant sighed. "Do what the man said." Then, raising his voice, "Let's go, people! Pick up your feet!" He led the way toward the nearest sidewalk, Hammett following him, soldiers all around.
"This way." The sergeant stepped onto the sidewalk and started toward a gap between buildings.
Hammett stopped and planted his feet.
No one touched him. The soldiers around him stopped, consternation on their faces. Someone said, "Uh, Sarge?"
The sergeant glanced back, then stopped. "Admiral Hammett! We have to go."
"I need to know what's going on," Hammett said.
"Sure. Once we're out of the city we can answer all your questions." The sergeant made a curt gesture, his face showing the strained impatience of sergeants throughout history forced to deal with difficult officers.
Hammett shook his head. "I'm not going into an alley with a bunch of armed strangers until I know what's going on."
The sergeant stared at him for several long seconds, as if trying to will Hammett into motion through the sheer force of his own frustration. Then his shoulders slumped. "Give us a perimeter," he barked, and the other soldiers spread out, facing outward, blocking the sidewalk and the closest lane of the boulevard.
"We're the Third Company of the Baja Battalion," the sergeant said. "Well, most of us are from the Third Company. They called us in to contain demonstrators who were marching on Spacecom headquarters." The sergeant shook his head, a world of bleakness reflected in his eyes. "We squared off against the crowd, a couple blocks from the headquarters building. They were upset, but they weren't rioting. Just shouting, mostly. Blocking traffic."
Hammett nodded, his stomach getting queasy. He sensed this story wasn't going anywhere good.
"They ordered us to fire on the crowd," the sergeant said. "We all got the order directly." He tapped the side of his head. "Our lieutenant tried to argue. Said the crowd wasn't violent. Said we'd make things worse. Said it'd be a war crime. The colonel told her to fire into the crowd or she'd be hanged for cowardice."
The sergeant grimaced. "The colonel wasn't on site, of course. He was tucked away nice and safe in his office in Liberty Hall."
Hammett flinched in spite of himself. Liberty Hall was a grand faux-classical edifice in the heart of the city. It held displays honoring the casualties of the Outer Systems War, and a museum showing the history of Spacecom. There were administration offices too, overseeing pension funds and support services for veterans, but mostly the building was a monument to the heroes of the armed forces. Hammett had been there several times. It was a hushed, reverent space that gave him goosebumps every time.
Now, apparently, the EDF had moved in and claimed the place for their own. It felt blasphemous. It felt, somehow, worse than all the other excesses of the EDF. Seizing power was one thing. Hammett could understand the lust for power. Violating the sanctity of Liberty Hall, though? That was just wrong.
"The lieutenant said she'd personally shoot anyone who obeyed that order," the sergeant said. "Then she pushed her way into the crowd, and that was the last I saw of her." He gestured around at the other soldiers. "The rest of us deserted together. We've been trying to figure out what we can do. Then we heard about your arrest."
"So you decided to rescue me?"
The sergeant nodded.
Hammett sighed. "I appreciate the effort. I really do. But I want my day in court."
The sergeant gaped at him. "Sir, they'll kill you! They'll stand you u
p against a wall and shoot you."
"Maybe." Hammett shrugged wearily. "But I'll stir up a world of trouble in the meantime."
"But-" The sergeant looked utterly flabbergasted. "Sir, I don't think you've thought this through!"
"Let me put it this way," Hammett said. "Statsminister Acton sent a personal request to an EDF general, asking that I be discreetly released and sent back to Naxos." He spread his hands in a shrug. "If that's what Acton wants, then that's what I'm not going to do."
The sergeant stared at him for several long seconds. Finally he said, "All right. We'll escort you to the courthouse, then."
"You'll do no such thing," Hammett said sharply. "Armed men in uniforms, with white armbands? You people are a walking incitement to violence." He gestured around him. "So far, no one's getting shot. No idiots are starting firefights, with civilians in the background catching stray bullets. I won't have you fanning the flames."
The sergeant drooped a bit.
"Thank you," Hammett said. "I won't forget this. Now take your people and get out of the city. Get yourselves out of danger. Put yourselves somewhere where you won't trigger a battle in the streets."
"No, Sir," the sergeant said.
Hammett blinked.
"We won't leave the city. We're bivouacked in a warehouse near here. We'll stay out of sight if we can. But if someone starts massacring civilians, we'll step in." He stepped away from Hammett. "All right, people, move out." He paused long enough to say, "Good luck, Admiral." Then he led the rest of the company into the gap between buildings. In a moment Hammett was alone.
He looked around. Traffic was moving again, some people gawking at him as they passed, others carefully looking away. There was no pedestrian traffic, though he saw people peeping out from doorways. There was no sign of the Military Police ground car. He admired the courage of the rebel soldiers, but all they'd really managed to do was cost him his ride.
He sighed, turned toward the distant courthouse, and started to walk.
CHAPTER 29 - HAMMETT