The Battle of the Hammer Worlds

by Graham Sharp Paul

  “Fine,” Fellsworth said icily. “I’ll take that as a no. Who else agrees with Lieutenant Commander Hashemian?”

  Lieutenant Xing broke the long silence. “I do, sir. I’m with Lieutenant Commander Hashemian. I’m not going to be part of this scheme. It’s madness, so count me out. I won’t be part of it.”

  Hashemian nodded. Michael thought his air of self-righteous satisfaction was probably a bit premature.

  “Noted, Lieutenant Xing. I think you’ve made yourself perfectly clear. Anyone else?”

  Two hands went up: an ordnance warrant officer and a comm chief; Michael didn’t know either of them, but he was surprised. In his experience, admittedly limited, noncommissioned officers had a finely developed sense of self-preservation.

  Fellsworth nodded. “So, Max, there are four of you. Have you discussed this among yourselves? I ask only because it helps me know that you’ve really thought this through,” she inquired in a tone of such utter sincerity that Michael was fooled, but only for a second. He watched in amazement as Hashemian walked straight into the trap Fellsworth had set, dragging his fellow mutineers with him.

  “Yes, of course, Karla,” Hashemian said impatiently. “I would not want to go off half-cocked on something as important as this.”

  You fool, Michael thought, you bloody fool. The game’s over. That’s mutiny, and you stand convicted out of your own mouth.

  Fellsworth nodded casually. She looked unconcerned. Hashemian sat back in his chair. He looked utterly confident, self-evidently sure that Fellsworth was about to capitulate.

  “Fine. Michael!”

  “Sir?” Michael replied, surprised. What did he have to do with any of this?

  “Go to the door. Outside you will find Corporal Yazdi. Tell her to come in, please.”

  Michael could tell from Fellsworth’s tone of voice that this was not the time to ask what the hell was going on, and so he did as he was told. To his surprise, Yazdi, together with Murphy and ten or more spacers—all leading spacers, he noted in passing—were drawn up in readiness. He was shocked to see every one of them holding a small homemade club.

  “Inside, Corporal Yazdi,” he said curtly. “Fellsworth wants you.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Yazdi did not wait for Michael to step back. Waving her team to follow, she pushed past him into the hut, with Michael coming on behind. When they entered, Yazdi’s team spread out in a half circle.

  “Corporal Yazdi!” Fellsworth’s tone was unmistakably the tone of the officer in command.

  Yazdi snapped to attention. “Sir!”

  “Arrest Lieutenant Commander Hashemian, Lieutenant Xing, Warrant Officer Kobach, and Chief Petty Officer Mondavi.”

  “Sir!”

  Yazdi’s team wasted no time; they were so quick, Fellsworth must have briefed them on what to expect, Michael thought. Yazdi had known what was coming. In seconds, the four mutineers, their faces white with shock and disbelief, had been dragged from their seats and stood up, their hands tied efficiently behind their backs.

  “Prisoners secure, sir.”

  “Thank you, Corporal Yazdi. Right, pay attention,” she said, looking at the four men ranged in front of her. The rest of her officers and senior spacers, all clearly taken by surprise, watched in openmouthed amazement.

  “Lieutenant Commander Hashemian, Lieutenant Xing, Warrant Officer Kobach, and Chief Petty Officer Mondavi. By the powers vested in me as senior officer, you are charged with mutiny in the presence of the enemy. A detailed charge sheet will be provided to you shortly. You will be held under close arrest pending preparation of the brief of evidence. Corporal Yazdi! Take the prisoners away.”

  “Sir.”

  “Oh, Corporal Yazdi.”

  “Sir?”

  “Try not to let the Hammers see what’s going on.”

  “Sir.”

  When the door closed behind the alleged mutineers, Fellsworth sat back in her seat, rubbing her face. For the first time, Michael realized the stress she must be under. She had a lot on her plate: the escape, Hashemian and his crew, dealing with the Hammers, keeping the Ishaqs motivated and focused, and more. It was a lot.

  Fellsworth recovered quickly. “Okay, team,” she said emphatically, “let me apologize for not bringing you in on what was going on, but . . . well, let’s say that what happened here shouldn’t have, and I certainly didn’t expect it to. Anyway, it has, so let’s deal with it first before we turn to the escape. Let me see; provided the brief of evidence stands up to the investigating officer’s scrutiny, I will be convening a court-martial . . .”

  Michael lay in his bunk. Around him, the inhabitants of his hut coughed, farted, moaned, and snored their way into sleep. Outside, the mother of all blizzards lashed the plasfiber building, driven snow skittering scratchily onto the glass of uncurtained windows.

  It had been one hell of a day: Fellsworth’s extraordinary plan to escape, Hashemian’s act of reckless stupidity, his own unexpected appointment as investigating officer. He had protested, of course. Too junior, he complained. No problem, Fellsworth replied; that’s allowed by the extraordinary-circumstances provisions of the Courts-Martial Manual. Too inexperienced? Ditto. Too involved? Ditto. At that point, Michael gave up and accepted his fate. He checked later; she was right, of course. Given the circumstances—and they did not get much more extraordinary—Fellsworth could pretty well do anything she liked.

  Michael yawned. One thing was certain: Things were going to get busy for the occupants of Camp I-2355. He turned over and was soon asleep.

  Wednesday, October 13, 2399, UD

  Camp I-2355, Branxton Mountains, Commitment

  A wayward swirl of snow chased the young spacer into the hut, the door slamming behind him as he hurried through the tightly packed ranks to the rear of the room. Morosely, Lieutenant Commander Fellsworth watched his approach. It had been a very long day; an unusually keen Hammer officer of the guard had insisted on turning over the huts twice that day without, needless to say, finding anything he shouldn’t have. Why today? Fellsworth wondered. Most days the occupants of Camp I-2355 were left alone, troubled only by morning and evening roll calls. The Hammers were supremely confident that escape, though always possible, was utterly pointless, a slow death from starvation and exposure guaranteed by I-2355’s position deep in the Carolyn Ranges of South Maranzika. Privately, Fellsworth thought the Hammers had a point: The wilderness surrounding the camp was brutal in the worst possible way, and one could go north for close to a thousand kilometers without meeting another human being. Going south was no better: The weather got worse and the mountains steeper, and there were still no people; if you got through, you had only a sheer drop into the icy waters of the Great Southern Ocean to look forward to.

  The spacer skidded to a halt in front of Fellsworth. “They’re gone, sir.”

  “Outside the wire?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank God for that. Maybe the jokers will leave us alone for the rest of the day. All right, people,” Fellsworth called. “The court is called to order.”

  Fellsworth crashed her makeshift gavel down onto the table, and the low buzz of conversation filling the hut stopped instantly. One eyebrow raised, she looked across at Michael; he stared back at her with a “what have I forgotten now?” look on his face. With a start, he remembered and came to his feet.

  “Uh, sorry, Your Honor. Yes, let me see,” he stuttered, frantically checking to see what came next. “Yes, all parties, including the court members, are present as before.”

  “Thank you so much,” Fellsworth acknowledged drily. For all his inexperience, Michael had performed the role of trial counsel almost flawlessly, though he did have a tendency to let his mind wander at times. If the matter at hand had been less serious, it would have been funny. She turned to the members of the court-martial seated to her right.

  “Lieutenant Commander Akuffo, have you reached a sentence?”

  “We have, Your Honor,” Akuffo replied
, her voice stiffly formal.

  “Is the sentence reflected on the sentence worksheet?”

  “It is.”

  “Please fold the worksheet and pass it to the trial counsel so that I can examine it.”

  Michael took the sheet of paper and passed it to Fellsworth. Opening it, she studied the sheet for a long time. At last, she nodded.

  “I have examined the worksheet, and it appears to be in proper form. You may return it to the president. Defense counsel and the accused will rise. Lieutenant Commander Akuffo, please announce the sentence of the court.”

  The hut was silent as the four mutineers rose to their feet, their faces tight with fear.

  Akuffo cleared her throat. She looked nervous. “Lieutenant Commander Maxwell G. Hashemian, Lieutenant Charles W. Xing, Warrant Officer Morris P. Kobach, and Chief Petty Officer Julia J. Mondavi. This court-martial unanimously finds that the following aggravating factor has been proved beyond a reasonable doubt. Proven: that you committed the offense of mutiny in the face of the enemy. This court-martial finds that any extenuating or mitigating circumstances are substantially outweighed by the aggravating circumstances, including the aggravating factor specifically found by the court and listed above.”

  Akuffo paused to clear her throat again. She held the sentence worksheet in both hands. It trembled slightly.

  “Lieutenant Commander Maxwell G. Hashemian, Lieutenant Charles W. Xing, Warrant Officer Morris P. Kobach, and Chief Petty Officer Julia J. Mondavi. It is my duty as president of this court-martial to announce that the court-martial, all of the members concurring, sentences you to be put to death.”

  An audible intake of breath ran around the hut. Michael’s heart started to pound. He always had known that it might come to this, but now that it had, the extent of what had happened struck home fully for the first time.

  “Accused and counsel, be seated. Trial counsel, retrieve the exhibit from the president. Now,” Fellsworth said formally, “members of the court, before I excuse you . . .”

  Fellsworth ran through the closing formalities, and Michael tuned out for a moment. He had been so frantically busy with the court-martial that he had given little or no thought to what came next. He hoped Fellsworth had. Legally, she could carry out the sentence of the court—the rules governing court-martials held under extraordinary circumstances provided for it—but Michael suspected that she had other ideas. In any case, it was all academic; he would bet his pension that the Hammers would never allow her to hang four of her crew from a convenient tree. The mutineers would end up appealing to the FedWorld Military Court of Final Appeal, assuming they all made it back home safely, of course. In that case, and if the convictions were upheld, the sentence probably would be reduced to neurowiping. Fleet had not executed a death sentence in centuries, though that was no guarantee. Fleet had come close more than once.

  He turned his mind back to the proceedings. He wondered what Fellsworth was going to do.

  Michael stepped out of the hut as the four convicted mutineers were hustled away. For once the sky was clear, though a bitter wind from the northeast promised snow later in the day. Some day! It was not even midday, and the sun was sinking fast into the west. It would be dark soon. He started toward his hut, wondering what delicacies the galley crew would have on offer for lunch.

  “Michael!” Fellsworth called after him. “Hold on a second.”

  Michael turned. “Sir?”

  “Come with me,” she ordered. “I need you to witness what I sincerely hope will be the last chapter in this sorry saga.”

  “I don’t—” Michael said, puzzled.

  She cut him off. “No questions. Just come with me. I need a full neuronics record of what comes next.”

  Puzzled, Michael followed her through the snow. Fellsworth’s destination soon became obvious, and before long they were alone with the four mutineers. They stared at Fellsworth, their faces a mix of fear and bravado.

  “Come to tell us when we get turned off, have you, Fellsworth?’ Hashemian said bitterly.

  “Actually, no. I’m here to tell you how you don’t, so—”

  “Yeah, yeah, right,” Hashemian sneered. “Why don’t you—”

  Xing did not let him finish. “Shut the fuck up, Hashemian. You’ve done enough damage, so listen for once.”

  “That’s very good advice, and I suggest you take it, Hashemian,” Fellsworth said emphatically. Hashemian’s head went down in defeat. “Good. Now, I have a simple proposition. All I need is a yes or a no. So listen up. Okay?”

  The group nodded reluctantly.

  “Good. If you give me your word that you will do everything in your power to ensure that we escape successfully from this damn camp, I will guarantee that your sentences will be set aside.”

  “You can do that?” Xing asked, hope splashed all over his face.

  “I can, and I will. On my honor as a commissioned officer, I absolutely guarantee it,” Fellsworth said. Her confidence was justified; although the Hammers were undoubtedly their enemy, it was a nearly certain bet that the appeals court could not agree without a formal declaration of war. That meant no death sentence. A technicality, true, but enough to get the four spacers off death row. “So, what’s it to be?”

  There was a short pause as the four spacers looked at one another. First Xing nodded, then the rest.

  “Good,” Fellsworth said, “but let me hear you say it.”

  There was a chorus of agreement. Fellsworth was satisfied. “Michael, you got all that?”

  “I have it, sir.”

  “Fine.” She turned back to the mutineers. “Helfort will comm each of you a copy of the recording. Right, we are done here. I am releasing you on bail on your own recognizance pending appeal. That’s all. Michael, brief Corporal Yazdi so she knows what the situation is.”

  With that she was gone. Michael sat, stunned by it all, as were the mutineers. They looked shell-shocked.

  “Corporal Yazdi!”

  Corporal Yazdi and Marine Murphy watched in silence as the four mutineers left the hut.

  “Do you think they believed me?” Murphy whispered.

  “Well,” Yazdi replied, stretching up to pat Murphy on the shoulder, “I would. I think it was the bit about ripping their arms off that did the trick. So yes, I think they did. I don’t think they’ll be talking to the Hammers.”

  “They better not,” Murphy muttered darkly.

  Thursday, November 25, 2399, UD

  Defense Council Secretariat, city of McNair, Commitment

  Fleet Admiral Jorge got to his feet to make his way to the lectern. He nodded at the grim-faced man seated at the head of the Council table. “Thank you, Chief Councillor. In the interests of time, I’ll give a quick overview of q-ship operations to date and then take any questions.”

  “Fine,” Polk muttered, waving at Jorge to continue. He had heard it all before, but to keep the Council up-to-date, he would have to hear it again.

  Jorge nodded to his flag lieutenant, who flicked on the holovid projector. A three-dimensional model of humanspace bloomed on the holovid that filled an entire wall of the room.

  “You can see here, gentlemen”—Jorge flicked a laser pointer across the display—“following the success of the Xiang operation in which the Feds lost twenty-seven merchant ships and the heavy cruiser Ishaq, the ships of Commodore Monroe’s task unit have dispersed and are now acting independently. So far, Monroe’s ships have destroyed a further eleven Fed merships without incident, in some cases right under the noses of Fed patrols. The flashing red icons on the plot show these—here, here, and here.”

  Jorge paused, pleased to see the smiles of approval on the faces of everyone present—even the usually sour-faced Polk—before continuing.

  “Our intelligence sources confirm that Operation Cavalcade is on track; the Federated Worlds are being forced to redeploy forces away from planetary defense to protect their trade routes.”

  “And the follow-on operation?” Pol
k asked.

  “Damascus, sir. As I said, the Feds are being forced to do what we want them to do, so it’s looking good. At this stage, I am confident that the preconditions for Operation Damascus will be met. Its objective is to convince the Feds that an attack in overwhelming force on their home planets is imminent, an attack they cannot counter thanks to our development of antimatter warheads for our missiles. If it can do that—and I am convinced that it will—then the Feds will be forced to the negotiating table. At which point”—Jorge looked pointedly across the table at the councillor for foreign relations—“the Hammer Fleet will have done everything it has been asked to do.”

  “Any change to the timing?”

  Jorge shook his head. “No, sir. Unless things change, I will be seeking formal approval from the Council in March to initiate Operation Damascus effective April 1.”

  Polk looked pleased. “Good. Now, turning to other matters . . .”

  Thursday, November 25, 2399, UD

  Camp I-2355, Branxton Mountains, Commitment

  It had been two months to the day since Michael had arrived at I-2355. Now, finally, the long hours of laborious preparation were finished. He was outside the wire and clear of the camp. Michael still did not believe it; his heart pounded and his chest heaved as he lay under his chromaflage sheet waiting for the rest of his stick of escapees to make it out.

  With Hashemian’s short-lived mutiny safely contained, the pace had been relentless. Outwardly, the occupants of I-2355 did the little that had to be done around their camp, mainly clearing the snow dumped by endless blizzards, performing household chores, and turning out in the cold for the Hammers’ twice-daily roll calls.

  Inwardly, well out of sight of the Hammers, the camp was a hive of furious labor as geneered bacteria from the escape kits were broken out and put to work. Soon the camp’s kitchen was organized into the production lines that would manufacture all the essentials needed to support an escape from I-2355 in the middle of winter. The bacterial brews all smelled like camp stew, but eating their product, though not fatal, was not recommended.