The Battle of the Hammer Worlds

by Graham Sharp Paul

  The more he thought about things, the more he felt alone and the more his thoughts kept turning back to Anna. With a few short breaks—largely the product of adolescent stupidity and mostly his fault—he and Anna had been together throughout their time at Space Fleet College. Despite the relentless pressures of college life, the bond had deepened to the point where Michael believed with all his heart that Anna was the one for him. He liked to think that she felt the same way about him.

  But even if she did, there was a fly in the ointment. There always was, of course.

  There was the old adage: Space Fleet College made relationships for Fleet to break. Michael knew it was an adage founded on years of bitter experience. In his case, it was beginning to look dangerously prescient. He and Anna had seen little of each other since graduation. No surprises there; the chances of two frontline heavy cruisers being in the same port at the same time were vanishingly small. He knew. He had done the math.

  True, the chances of his arranging leave at the same time as Anna were better, but they still were not good. If he and Anna were lucky, they might spend a month a year together until they got senior enough to pull staff jobs ashore, but that happy state of affairs was a long, long way off, and even a month a year did not allow for random acts of stupidity by those Hammer dickheads. God only knew what they were up to. Knowing the Hammers, anything was possible.

  The thought of what the Hammers might do if they cut loose made his heart skip a beat. Much as he hated the Hammers—and he did with relentless, cold-burning intensity—the thought of facing the murdering swine again was almost too much to bear. The bowel-churning fear he had felt working with Matti Bienefelt outside the light scout 387 to fix battle damage, all the while knowing that there was nothing but hard vacuum between him and an oncoming Hammer rail-gun salvo, had been seared into his memory. The pain he had felt as 387’s battle dead left the ship after the Battle of Hell’s Moons was with him for life. Did he want to go through all that again? Did he really want to be a Fleet officer? Maybe he should quit. He could marry Anna and set up a home while she pursued her Fleet career. After all, Dad had always hinted that there was a place for him in the family flame-tree business, so a job would not be a problem.

  For an instant he was tempted, but it was only for an instant.

  “Bugger that,” he muttered. Flame-tree salesman. Christ! What a depressing thought. Salesman or Fleet officer? He snorted. That was no contest. Besides, he had a debt to settle with the Hammer. The thought of what he might have to go through to settle that debt made him feel physically sick. Still, the debt would be settled in full. The ghosts of 387’s dead crew would not settle for anything less.

  Even as he repeated a promise already made countless times, something deep inside, something cold and dangerous, started to pull him down into darkness. Abruptly, the urge to curl up and shut out the world and all its fear and pain started to overwhelm him.

  Panic engulfed him; Michael started to slide over the edge into the black pit of depression. For a moment he let himself go, unwilling to stop the fall, but then his training kicked in, the routines ground into him by the combat trauma counselors after the Battle of Hell’s Moons taking over. Slowly, he pushed the tide of hopelessness back. Bit by bit, he recovered his mental balance; it took another ten long, hardfought minutes to bring a racing heart and heaving lungs back under control. Shakily, Michael took a deep breath, almost defeated by the sheer physical effort it had taken to claw his way back to normal. Well, as normal as he could be under the circumstances, he thought wryly, if a flat, sick tiredness was normal.

  Michael pulled up the holopix of his last visit with Anna. He knew full well that the sight of her would do nothing to help his mood, but he did not care. Then there she was, and for the umpteenth time Michael marveled at her beauty, wondered at the luck that had made him the man she wanted in her life. Well, he reminded himself, so he hoped.

  Anna’s face was beyond striking. It was breathtaking. Dominated by large green eyes, her geneering-enhanced face drew its classic beauty from every one of Old Earth’s major gene pools. The mix of Asian, Chinese, African, and European bloodlines had produced a result that was all of them and none of them at the same time. Michael forgot everything as he stared at a face the color of dark honey, his whole being falling helplessly into eyes framed from above by fine black hair cut unfashionably short at the sides and set wide over sharply defined pink-dusted cheekbones.

  No two ways about it; Anna Cheung was some work of art.

  Michael commed his neuronics to stop the holopix. If he watched any longer, he would feel even worse than he already did. With a heartfelt prayer that things would work out for the two of them, he turned over, determined this time to get to sleep.

  Friday, July 2, 2399, UD

  FWSS Ishaq, berthed on SBS-44, in orbit around Jascaria

  The Ishaq’s conference room was packed. A murmur of conversation washed over every officer not on watch while they waited for the captain to arrive.

  Michael, Aaron Stone, and the rest of Ishaq’s junior officers were seated where all prudent junior officers sat: right at the back of the conference room, well to one side and out of the line of sight of prowling senior officers, of which Ishaq, being a capital ship, had a depressingly large number.

  Everyone was stumped. Nobody knew why the meeting had been called. Something was up, that much was clear, but Captain Constanza was not acting normally. It was no secret that Constanza did not like face-to-face meetings; in particular, she did not like groups as large as the one that waited for her now. She much preferred to use her neuronics for virtual conferences. Why Constanza was breaking the habit of a lifetime had been the subject of an energetic debate conducted in carefully hushed tones.

  Thus far, the most popular theory was that Constanza’s time as Ishaq’s captain was finished and that Morrissen would take over.

  Michael—and many more in the conference room that day, he suspected—wanted this to be the reason so badly that it hurt, if only for Ishaq’s sake. Sadly, he was not convinced that Constanza had convened this meeting to announce her own demise. Why would she endure such public humiliation? There had to be another reason. From the little he knew—mostly secondhand from his father—Fleet was more than willing to chop nonperforming captains if it had to, but it liked to do so quietly. Announcing a change of command at a three-ring circus, which was what they had here, was not Fleet’s way. So what the hell could it be?

  Michael had a leaden feeling in his stomach. He thought he knew even if his peers had howled down his theory. Please, God, he thought, not a program change; anything but a program change. He and Anna had booked a weekend away, and more than anything else, he wanted that weekend. He would give anything to get away from Ishaq for a few days. That was how badly he wanted to see Anna again.

  “Attention! Captain on deck.” The executive officer’s crisp tones snapped Michael and all the others to their feet.

  Captain Constanza strode into the conference room and went straight to the lectern. She ignored Morrissen.

  “Sit down, everyone.” Constanza paused for a moment, looking around at the mass of Ishaq’s officers arrayed in front of her. Michael could not help himself. He shrank down into his seat.

  “I’ll make this as short as I can.” Constanza paused again.

  “Doesn’t look too comfortable,” Michael whispered to Stone, who nodded.

  “The reason for this briefing is to let you all know that we have been retasked by Fleet in response to new intelligence . . .”

  A barely audible sigh swept through the room. No spacer liked program changes.

  “. . . suggesting that mership traffic on the trade routes between the Old Earth Alliance and the Federated Worlds is to be the target of significant pirate activity over the next few months. Our task will be to provide enhanced security for all ships using those routes. We will be part of Task Group 225.2 under the tactical control of Rear Admiral Chavez in Recourse. However,
in accordance with antipiracy standard operating procedures, the Ishaq will operate independently. The program change is effective on completion of our formal visit to Kelly’s Deep. How long these patrols will last is anyone’s guess. Fleet tells me they are open-ended at this stage, but they have assured me that Ishaq’s docking for scheduled maintenance next June still stands. Before I hand over for the intelligence briefing, are there any questions?”

  Constanza was met by a stunned silence. The personal plans of Ishaq’s entire crew lay in ruins, and the officers present would have to clean up the mess.

  “No? Okay. Commander Nandutu?”

  “Thank you, sir. Now . . .”

  Michael tuned out. He would look at the detailed intelligence summary in his own time. One thing was for sure: He would not be asking any questions of Constanza, Nandutu, or anyone else. He cursed softly under his breath. His long-planned and much-anticipated weekend with Anna had been flushed down the crapper. Damn, damn, damn, he thought despairingly.

  Finally Nandutu finished and sat down. Michael had taken in not a single word. Constanza came to the lectern again.

  “That’s all I want to cover right now. The operations planning group will have the preliminary operations order out by Monday . . .”

  Bang goes their weekend, Michael thought.

  “. . . so I think that does it. Before we close, are there any questions?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Michael peered around the officer in front of him to see who the brave soul was. “Foolhardy idiot” might be a better description. According to his neuronics, it was some lieutenant commander from navigation. Jenkins was his name. Michael had not met him yet.

  “Go on,” Constanza muttered. Her body language was unmistakable. She was not interested in questions.

  “Thank you, sir. As a member of the ops planning group, I had a chance to study the intelligence summary before the meeting, and I must say that while it is long on the bloodstained history of these pirates, it is short on the tactical detail we need to put together an effective operation: their order of battle, ship types, weapons systems, likely tactics, logistics arrangements, that sort of thing. Now—”

  Constanza was not having any of it.

  “Thank you for your insight,” she spit venomously. Jenkins blanched and quickly sat down. “I think you’ll find we have all we need to deal with what are another bunch of undisciplined, murdering crooks. If these pirates really are the Karlisle Alliance as Fleet intelligence is telling us, we whipped them back in ’92, so I don’t think we’ll have any problem doing the same thing again. In fact, I look forward to meeting them. A bunch of pirates should give us some useful live firing practice.” Constanza looked pleased at the thought.

  Michael leaned over to Stone. “She should be careful what she asks for,” he whispered.

  Stone nodded. “I know, I know. She might get it.”

  Michael smiled. By now, Stone knew it was one of his favorite sayings, knew it well enough to finish it for him.

  Constanza did not wait for more questions. “That will be all for now,” she declared, and left the room. Behind her, the meeting broke up in a welter of small talk.

  Michael sighed, a long and heartfelt sigh of frustration. Stone patted him on the shoulder. “Michael! You are one unlucky boy. Anna is going to rip your balls off.” Stone looked positively cheerful at the prospect.

  Michael nodded. “She surely will. If she gets close enough, that is, which I doubt she ever will. Christ, what a life we lead. I’d better go and get a vidmail off to her.”

  Stone shook his head. “No. Don’t do that. Wait for the revised program to come out. You never know your luck. We might get a few days off somewhere, and maybe the relationship fairy will arrange for Damishqui to be alongside at the same time.”

  “Or maybe the relationship fairy will keep you apart,” an unfamiliar voice taunted. “A true test of the bonds of luuuuuve.” Everyone found this highly amusing; Michael’s love life—or lack of it—was turning into an enjoyably soft target.

  “You are all bastards,” Michael responded without rancor. “Heartless, scum-sucking bastards.”

  “What crap you all talk.” Stone shook his head in despair. “Michael! I’m sure it’ll turn out okay. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Check the ship’s program, then write the vidmail. Oh, and in case you’ve forgotten, before we go chasing pirates, we have a long weekend to look forward to. Kelly’s Deep, here we come!”

  Michael had to laugh at Stone’s infectious enthusiasm. Stone was right to be fired up, and he was not alone. In fact, everyone was practically drooling at the thought of Ishaq’s long-planned formal visit to Kelly’s Deep, and for good reason.

  When it came to foreign ports, Kelly’s Deep would rate in the top five in all of humanspace. The planet was a great place to spend a long weekend. Not quite up to the standard of Jackson’s or Scobie’s, but damn good nonetheless. Great scenery, great beaches, cheap booze, some of the best food in the cosmos and—not that he would be interested, of course—some of the friendliest people known to humankind.

  Michael slid out of his seat. Everyone senior to him finally had left, so the chance of being ambushed by a senior officer on the lookout for some poor sucker to do some shitty little job or other was now minimal. He had things to do. True to form, Stone’s advice had been good advice, and he intended to take it.

  “I’m off. See you all later.”

  Tuesday, July 6, 2399, UD

  FWSS Ishaq, berthed on SBS-44, in orbit around Jascaria

  “All stations, this is command. Stand by to drop in ten minutes.”

  Well, thank God for that, Michael thought. Finally! The wait had been a long one. His still-painful left leg did not appreciate it when he sat around doing nothing; low-impact exercise was what it liked, and lots of it. Not that he had much say in the matter. With Ishaq firmly berthed on SBS-44, the job of assistant sensor officer responsible for passive intercepts was a nothing assignment. And all in all, it had been a bad morning; things had not gone well. The Ishaq’s scheduled departure time had come and gone; despite the crew’s frantic efforts to get the ship under way, what could go wrong had gone wrong.

  First there was a glitch with the forward maneuvering system. Then there was a main engine problem, quickly followed by another with one of the auxiliary fusion plants. All the while, the command holocam feed through to the sensor management center showed Captain Constanza pacing up and down the combat information center in frustration, her face blotched red with barely concealed rage. Michael tried not to smile at the obvious efforts everyone was making to avoid her mounting anger, heads well down, eyes locked firmly on holovid screens. Inevitably, not everyone succeeded, and the unlucky ones earned an earful of abuse and threats, with Commander Morrissen as ever bearing the brunt of her spiteful anger.

  The growing sense of relief was almost palpable as the minutes ticked away without any more setbacks. Finally the moment came. The time-honored phrase “All stations, this is command. Ishaq is go for launch. May God watch over us this day” was broadcast throughout the ship. With a faint tremor, hydraulic locking arms pushed the massive heavy cruiser away from the space battle station. Ishaq was at last on its way to its designated departure pipe en route to Kelly’s Deep.

  He turned his attention back to the data feeds from Ishaq’s passive sensors, looking for anything his operators and the sensor AIs might have missed. He was so absorbed in the feeds that he jumped when Constanza stood the crew down from departure stations as Ishaq settled down for the long low-g haul out-system. Thankful that Ishaq was on its way, Michael began to relax a little as he handed over the duty to his relief and slipped out of the sensor management center.

  Michael put Constanza out of his mind as he threaded his way through the training office’s maze of workstations before settling himself into his tiny cubicle. He sighed. Fellsworth had given him a mound of things to do, all of them undemanding and none of them even remotely interestin
g. He sighed again as he commed his neuronics to bring up the first job on the list, an analysis of the sims used to train Ishaq’s junior spacers in basic sensor drills. Constanza was not happy about the results the trainers were getting, and Fellsworth wanted him to make sure the problem did not lie with the simulations her department produced.

  He did not get far.

  “Michael! Job for you.”

  It was Fellsworth.

  “Okay, sir.”

  “You know Ishaq’s annual operational readiness evaluation is scheduled for late January?”

  “Yes, sir. I do.” How could he forget? Ishaq’s ORE was perhaps the single most important event in the ship’s year.

  Substandard OREs had destroyed more than a few Fleet careers; he could only hope that Constanza’s was one of them.

  “Right. I want you to produce one of the command exercises we need to get ready. I’ll comm you the specs so I won’t have to waste any time explaining precisely what I want. It’ll all be there. I want an initial outline of what you plan to do by . . . um, let me see, yes. Friday, 16:00. Nothing too detailed. Just an outline of what you think the COMEX should look like from the Hammer point of view. Geopolitical script, rough concept of operations, order of battle, time line, that sort of thing. You know the drill. Okay?”