Merrick waved a hand uncertainly. “I…I had my reasons, but I suspect that most of you don’t want to hear them,” he muttered as Polk looked on, his face hard with triumph.
Polk knew there would never be a better time, and he struck. “No, we don’t, Merrick. You can explain it to Doc-Sec. I move that Jesse Merrick be removed as chief councillor and held for trial by the investigating tribunal. All those in favor.”
The vote was a formality, with every hand in the air within seconds. Polk’s lip curled in a half sneer; they had good reason to be quick, he thought, especially Merrick’s men. He would take his time about it, but they would know the meaning of the word fear before many months were out.
The next step followed as surely as day follows night. As Merrick was bundled away, hands tied behind his back with the ubiquitous plasticuffs so loved by DocSec, with three heavily built troopers towering over the bent and broken figure, the councillors were not able to keep the shock and surprise from their eyes. Moments later, the motion to appoint Polk as chief councillor was carried unanimously.
Polk savored the moment for a long minute, the shattered remnants of Merrick’s supporters silent and still, faces white with shock at the awful suddenness of it all. Then the orders flowed: the immediate announcement of Merrick’s arrest for dereliction of duty, his replacement by Polk, full holovid coverage of the outrageous Fed assault, military funerals for those killed, an immediate purge of the senior ranks of the military, a board of inquiry to look into the disaster, and a warrant for the arrest of Brigadier General Digby.
If there had been any doubt about who was in control, there was none anymore.
Then the meeting was over. As councillors fled with unseemly haste, Polk moved to the chief councillor’s chair at the head of the Council table. He sat down, exultant, his victory complete. The one order he hadn’t given-to hunt down and exterminate every influential supporter of Jesse Merrick-could wait until tomorrow. He was inclined not to talk up Merrick’s role in the Fed attack. He had a feeling that the more he could portray the Feds as unprincipled aggressors, the more pressure he could bring to bear on the insurgents who plagued Faith.
If the Feds thought that the fallout from the Mumtaz affair was now a matter for the diplomats, they’d badly underestimated Jeremiah Polk. After all, centuries of human history had shown that there was nothing better than an external threat when it came to crushing internal dissent. He didn’t think he would have much trouble convincing his people-he liked that, “his people”-that the Feds’ real agenda was the destruction of the Hammer Worlds. And even if it took ten years, he would make sure the Feds suffered for the humiliation they had heaped on the Hammer of Kraa.
The tiny fires lit by the news of Merrick’s arrest and transfer to McNair State Prison smoldered for a while before bursting into life and spreading like wildfire.
Within the hour, people began to emerge onto the streets of the sprawling industrial suburbs to the south of McNair, small groups coalescing first into large groups and then into mobs, the anger building as leaders emerged to whip emotion into action. The message was the same, hurled out by angry and defiant men at angry and defiant people in hundreds of impromptu street meetings: Merrick was one of them, he’d come from the same mean streets as they had, and they’d be damned if they would allow an off-worlder like Polk to take over.
By late morning, smoke began to darken the sky over McNair, the air split with the sirens of DocSec convoys deploying to cordon off the city center. Their instructions were clear and simple: Stop the mobs converging on McNair State Prison. At any cost.
Thursday, November 19, 2398, UD
DLS-387 and DSLS-166, Hell Nearspace
Michael and the tattered remnants of his crew had worked like they’d never worked before.
With 166 alongside, the crash bags of the living had been ferried across to 166’s sick bay and those of the dead had been transferred to external storage containers for the long ride home. Michael’s heart was sick as his neuronics updated the casualty list as medics worked feverishly to stabilize the injured and get them into regen for the long ride to the base hospital. The toll kept mounting as the casualties from 387’s combat information center were triaged.
The list was awful; Michael had to struggle to understand the enormity of the disaster that had hit 387.
Ribot, Armitage, and the rest of the officers except Cosmo Reilly were all gone. Strezlecki, Leong, Carlsson, and Athenascu were gone. Ng was gone. Most of the combat information center crew, gone. Half the galley crew, unlucky enough to be caught at their damage control station in the cross-passage just outside the combat information center, gone. The entire crew of 387’s lander, Jessie’s Hope, gone. Two engineers working on a trivial problem with Weapons Power Charlie’s local AI as it went up, gone. There’d barely been enough of them left to put in a coffee cup.
Chief Kemble interrupted. “Command, sick bay. We’re done here, sir, and 166 is almost finished with our overflow. I’ve commed you the final casualty list: twenty-eight dead, sixteen seriously injured, but according to the regen AIs, they’ll all be okay, though I’m still a bit worried about Bienefelt and one of Warrant Officer Ng’s team, Petty Officer Gaetano. And twelve walking wounded, you included.”
“Thanks, chief. Let me know if there’s any change. A bad business.”
“It is, sir. Didn’t think I’d ever see something as bad as this. One more thing, sir. I know Mother’s given up nagging you, but you really must come down so we can take a look at you. You’re not going to drop dead on us or anything, but you’ve lost a lot of blood despite the best efforts of your suit, and woundfoam’s only good up to a point, especially if you won’t stay still. So, sir! For the last time or I’ll send a team to get you, sick bay now!”
Michael had to laugh at Kemble’s earnest firmness. “All right, all right. Just give me ten minutes. I need to see how my new XO is doing with the ship repairs, then I’ve got to talk to the skipper of 166, and then I’ll turn myself in. Promise.”
Kemble grunted. “If you can do all that in ten minutes, fine. If not, I’m coming to get you.”
“Yes, chief,” Michael said meekly.
Harris and his team, more 166s than 387s, Michael noted, were hard at it. Emergency generators were pumping white-gray foamsteel to secure the footings of a crude framework of steel crash beams that had been jury-rigged across the huge hole blown out of 387’s hull when Weapons Power Charlie had lost containment. The hole now was jammed with spacers welding steel bracing into place, the brilliant blue-white light from the welding arcs bleaching the color out of their orange suits.
“How’s it going, chief?”
Harris waved an arm at the chaos around him. “It may not look like it, sir, but we are getting there. This is the bad one, but Mother’s confirmed that the design of our repair is good even if it looks like something kids dreamed up. She’s happy that the steel crash bracing will hold the foamsteel plug in place. We’ve just got to get it all in there, and that’s a slow process, what with cutting the braces to size and all. The rest aren’t so bad. I never thought I’d have anything good to say about a rail-gun slug, but at least they don’t leave huge holes like this. 166’s XO is down sealing the lander hangar now, and then we’ll do the surveillance drone hangar. Another two hours, tops.”