He paused again, this time to look at the councillor for intelligence. Albert Marek wriggled in his chair, the look of sudden panic on his face almost comical.
Merrick couldn’t help himself. “Yes, Councillor Marek. Well you might look concerned.”
“Chief Councillor!” Polk protested. “Where is this going? We have a huge agenda to cover today, and we have dealt with Faith. I suggest we move on.”
“Oh, you do? Well, I beg to differ, Councillor.” Merrick stared at Polk for a moment. Of course he had to step in; Marek was one of Polk’s men, and he couldn’t allow Merrick to attack him unchallenged. But the momentum was with Merrick today, and Polk knew it, an unpleasant reality acknowledged by a wave of the hand for Merrick to continue.
“Thank you. Now, Councillor Marek, I just wanted to point out that your department’s most recent report on Faith paints Planetary Councillor Herris, well…Now, how can I put it? Almost,” he said, his voice dripping with poorly concealed sarcasm, “as a saint in Kraa’s eyes. To read your report, Herris has done nothing at all to contribute to the problems there. Once again, it seems that antisocial elements and heretics are the only cause.”
Marek tried; Merrick had to give him that. “Yes, Chief Councillor,” Marek said firmly. “That is the opinion of my people, and I stand by it.” He stared defiantly back at Merrick.
“Good, good,” Merrick said smoothly as he slammed the trap shut. “So if that turns out not to be the case, then of course you will not object if the Council asks for your immediate resignation.”
Polk’s objection was immediate, the anger obvious as he half rose from his seat, face working with rage. “Chief Councillor! I-”
Merrick wasn’t having any of it. “Sit down, Councillor!’ he roared. “I am speaking. Sit down or by Kraa, you’ll regret it.”
Polk stayed half standing for a long time before slumping down back into his seat. Merrick watched him for a moment. He had to be careful now. He had the Council where he wanted them, but it would take only one of the neutral councillors to object and the game would be over. Time to quit while he was ahead.
“So, Councillor Marek, you might like to consider the conclusions of your next report carefully,” he said, his voice loaded with concern that Marek get it right. “Otherwise…”
Merrick didn’t have to say any more. There wasn’t a man present who did not know what happened to former councillors.
“Good, good,” Merrick said exuberantly, much like a man receiving unexpectedly good news. “Let’s move on, shall we. Ah, yes, Councillor Polk. Your report on industrial productivity, please.”
Merrick sat back as the last of the councillors filed out of the Council room. Dear Kraa, when will they ever learn? he thought as the headache that had lurked half-felt throughout the Council meeting suddenly blossomed into full flower, the pain hammering at his temples. Why was every meeting the same? Why was the blindingly obvious so hard for Polk and his crew of misbegotten whores to accept? Kraa’s blood! Each week they tap-danced around the simple fact that corruption was the core problem facing the Hammer and would destroy them all if they didn’t do something about it.
Still, Merrick consoled himself as he massaged his aching head, in the end he’d gotten some of what he’d wanted.
Herris had been summoned, his first step to a short encounter with a DocSec firing squad.
Marek had been put on notice, his first step to dismissal from the Council.
And Councillor Polk had been given a very rough time over the Hammer Worlds’ continuing problems with industrial productivity, allowing Merrick to remind him that the interests of the Hammer of Kraa would be much better served if he focused his attention on his own affairs rather than meddling in the business of other departments, intelligence, for example. Sadly, if he was honest, it was not much of a step to anywhere, but it was satisfying nonetheless.
Well, Polk was going to go on learning the hard way that Jesse Merrick was not a man to be fucked with. When the time was right, he had every intention of fashioning the miracle of Eternity into a very large blunt object that he would enjoy shoving right up Polk’s ass.
Giovanni Pecora’s neuronics chimed softly. With a quick apology to his dinner guests, he closed his eyes to take the comm.
It was the intelligence minister, Andres Suchapon. “Giovanni. Just thought I’d let you know. Department 24’s people on Commitment have had a result on the Mumtaz business. They don’t have absolute confirmation, but the agent’s report confirms that there is only one large black Hammer project under Merrick’s direct control involving a significant amount of off-planet activity. And Digby is the man responsible for day-to-day management. That all fits what we already know. Department 24 has graded the report Alfa-2.”
Pecora was silent for a moment before he responded. Intelligence graded Alfa-2 was almost as good as it got. “Okay, Andres. Thanks. I guess we are marginally better off if the Mumtaz hijacking really is some lunatic scheme of Merrick’s, so it’s good to have that confirmed. But whether or not it really makes that much difference, I don’t know.”
Suchapon nodded sympathetically. The major risk of Operation Corona was not the loss of life on that day. It was what the Hammers might do in retaliation, and pinning the blame firmly on Merrick was key to limiting their response.
“We can only hope that it does, Giovanni. In any case, I don’t think it changes anything at this end. We must get our people back, and if the Hammer chooses to cut up rough afterward, so be it. We can take care of ourselves.”
“Right enough, Andres. Okay. Valerie’s up to speed?”
“She is. Not a happy woman. Anything else?”
“No, that’s it for tonight. I’ll see you on Monday.”
“You will. Night, Andres.”
“Night, Giovanni.”
Monday, September 21, 2398, UD
Hell Central
Prison Governor Costigan stood on the low catwalk above the milling group of orange coverall-suited prisoners.
The grim-looking man was flanked on either side by men in closely woven black stab-resistant one-piece plasfiber jumpsuits topped off with lightweight plasfiber close-combat helmets, also black. Hard faces devoid of even the slightest traces of emotion watched the mob over the barrels of crowd-control stun guns, eyes flickering restlessly behind closed plasglass faceplates.
One week, Costigan reflected. One week was all it had taken to turn proud independent human beings into meekly submissive convicts, feedstock for the driver mass mines and plants that were Hell System’s only reason to exist. The depersonalizing combination of numbers instead of names, convict haircuts, strip searches, confiscation of all personal possessions no matter how innocuous, cold, sleeplessness, hunger, and random acts of brutality, topped off with a cocktail of drugs that paralyzed the power of speech, never failed. And for the group below, there were two added shocks. The first was being dragged from the comfort and security of the Mumtaz without the time normal convicts had to adjust; the second was losing the feeling of connectedness that their neuronics gave them-now just so much electronic junk embedded in their brains. And perhaps there was one more. For these people, the Hammer was the devil incarnate, but here they were, helpless in the hands of the people they most feared.
The guards on the holding cage floor finally got the group into a semblance of order, and Costigan stepped up to the rail.
“I am Prison Governor Costigan.” His voiced boomed from the huge flat speakers mounted on the wall behind him, and as one the heads of all the people below lifted to look him in the face. “I won’t waste your time. You have work to do. But understand this. If you work well, you will receive two rewards: You’ll stay alive, and you will eat well. If you do not, then you will die. That’s all you need to know. Forget the future. You have none. This is all the future you have. And forget the past. It’s gone, and you will never get it back.” There was a moment’s pause while he looked for dissent, for anger, but there was none, just shock, disbelief, and fear.