The Battle of the Hammer Worlds

by Graham Sharp Paul

  “We’re closing in to send boarding parties across. Then we’ll start recovering the Hammer lifepods. Do you need any immediate assistance?’

  “None, thank you, sir. My navigation AI is suspect, which is why we were here in the first place, but apart from that all my systems are nominal.”

  “Roger. Stand by. I’ll get back to you when we’ve secured the ships. Oh, and by the way, well done. Xiong out.”

  Bienefelt leaned across. “I think she likes you, sir,” she whispered, her voice loaded with all the breathy intensity of a teenager sharing the secrets of young love.

  Michael leaned over. “Piss off, Matti,” he whispered back.

  Bienefelt laughed. “I’m going walkabout, sir. See if anything’s shifted.”

  “Fine. Take your guys with you. I don’t want them sitting around. I’ll patch Adamant into the task group’s BattleNet. You can keep an eye on what’s happening.”

  “Sir.”

  After Bienefelt left Michael alone in the combat information center, he sat back. With Xiong and her ships there, there was not a lot for him to do. He patched his neuronics into the helmet-mounted holocam of the marine major leading the boarding party heading for the Providence Sound. There were some privileges to being the captain of a light cruiser, and he meant to make the most of them. The only Hammer ship he had seen the inside of had been some crappy mership conversion, and then only when he was scheduled to have the shit kicked out of him. He was keen to see what the real thing looked like.

  Xiong was wasting no time getting across to what was left of the Hammer ships, and the marines certainly looked in no mood to hang around. When the first assault lander got close to the Providence Sound, doors port and starboard banged open to release a stream of black-suited marines, the boarding party cutting across the gap with an easy grace. They did not bother knocking. In seconds, a single roll of shaped-charge explosive was fast-glued to an air lock frame and fired, cutting a neat hole deep into the Providence Sound’s hull. Two marines dropped into the hole to repeat the process on the inner air lock door, and barely thirty seconds after they deployed, the marines were pouring into the ship.

  What Michael saw shocked him. With her artgrav thrown off-line, the inside of the Providence Sound was a shambles. The marines’ powerful torches picked out a mess of debris and equipment floating in a surreal slow-motion dance backlit by the ship’s emergency lighting. The shock wave from the loss of the aft auxiliary fusion plants had ripped equipment, pipework, and cables indiscriminately off their mounts but here and there had left little islands of normality: A workstation with a clipboard still stuck to the bulkhead; a damage-control locker open, its contents still neatly arranged; a holovid still flashing the order to abandon ship in pulsating red and yellow.

  Everywhere he could see the bodies of dead spacers, space suits slashed and ripped, visors shattered, red-black scars of blood frozen around hastily applied bright yellow emergency suit patches, evidence of desperate attempts to save the un-savable. Michael watched, sickened. They might be Hammers, but they were ordinary spacers, too.

  Something struck him as he watched. Xiong’s marines weren’t acting like most other boarding parties: spreading out, poking around, seeing if there were any survivors, that sort of thing. They were not hanging around. The slightest problem with a door or hatch, and it was blown open. They did the same with equipment blocking a passageway. Bang. Gone. Move on.

  No, these marines were on a mission, and belatedly, as they pushed their way down into the center of the ship before turning to go forward, Michael realized what they were after. When they came to the armored door that protected the forward missile magazines, he knew his guess had been right. These men were after Eaglehawk missiles fitted with antimatter warheads.

  The magazine door was the first door the marines did not blow off. A plasma cutter was brought to bear, and a hole big enough to admit a space-suited marine was cut with infinite care. Once they got inside, the doors were opened easily by the emergency override. The marines were in.

  Michael had seen plenty of missile magazines. This one looked no different from any other, but it still took his breath away. The magazine was filled with the dull black shapes of Eaglehawk missiles racked from deck to deckhead in hydraulically powered cradles. There were hundreds of the damn things in this section of the magazine alone. Above the racks were the hydraulic rams that moved missiles into the salvo dispenser that sat behind sliding blast doors. Everywhere shock-damaged pipes spawned tiny globules of hydraulic fluid. Little rainbow spheres shimmered, iridescent in the light from the marines’ torches as they floated across the magazine.

  The major whose holocam Michael was patched into did not waste any time looking around. Once through the door, he was up into the missile racks, looking carefully at the closest missile’s warhead. It did not take long for him to find what he was looking for, a small RFID—radio frequency identity—tag fixed to the nose of the missile with a thin plastic tie. He waved up one of his team, who pulled out what looked like a small handgun and put it to the tag. There was a long pause as the two huddled over the missile. Michael prayed that they knew what they were doing. The thought that they might be only centimeters from an antimatter warhead, probably shock damaged, possibly unstable, and potentially liable to explode, taking everything with it—Adamant included—made his stomach flip. Thank God he had aborted the missile strike. If he had not . . . Well, suffice it to say, he and his crew would not be watching Xiong’s marines stealing Hammer missiles.

  Finally, they were done. A thumb went up. Michael’s privileges as captain did not extend to being able to patch in to the major’s voice circuit, but he did not need to. The man’s body language spoke volumes.

  The marines had found the antimatter warheads they had been looking for.

  Michael felt acutely embarrassed as he crossed the brow to board the Seigneur. He had not thought to bring dress blacks for what was supposed to be a simple transit assignment. A shipsuit was all he had to wear. A clean shipsuit, true, but it was still only a shipsuit. He stopped, coming to attention as the bosun’s mates piped him on board, the main broadcast announcing his arrival with the traditional “Attention on deck, FWWS Adamant.”

  The ritual that accompanied the arrival on board of a captain in command completed, Michael stepped forward to take Captain Xiong’s outstretched hand.

  “Welcome aboard, Helfort, welcome aboard. Meet my officers, and then we’ll debrief you on your trip from Comdur.”

  Duty done, Michael was ensconced in a comfortable chair in Xiong’s day cabin, a welcome glass of beer in his hand. There was a moment’s companionable silence as Xiong took her own glass from the drinkbot. She put it carefully on the table before sitting down.

  Xiong looked across at the young man sitting opposite her. Considering Helfort’s reputation, he was not that impressive at first sight. For a Fed, he was small. Probably to compensate, he was heavily built, with well-defined shoulder and chest muscles pushing hard against his shipsuit. It was the face that impressed her. It had the stretched look she had seen in so many spacers fresh from combat. His eyes, a striking hazel color, were sunk deep, framed by a gray-black dusting of fatigue and stress, and were half covered by lanky brown hair falling down across his face, the lines of a much older man beginning to cut their way out from eyes and mouth.

  “What made you abort the missile strike, Michael?” Xiong asked.

  “Luck, sir, to be honest,” he said after a moment’s thought. “Aborting the missiles suddenly seemed like a good idea. Can’t really say why. I don’t know why. Instinct? Fear, maybe.”

  Xiong’s eyebrows went up in surprise. She took another sip of her beer. “You know, Michael, I would have put a million FedMarks down that you would have spun me some yarn or other.”

  Michael shook his head. “You know what, sir?”

  “What?”

  “Well,” he declared, his voice a crude parody of Pavel Duricek at his pompous best, �
�between us cruiser captains . . .”

  Xiong’s head went back as she roared with laughter. “Us cruiser captains. Oh, my . . . us cruiser captains. Now, that’s a good one,” she gasped, struggling to draw breath. “God’s blood, Michael. If you can make jokes at a time like this, maybe there’s hope for the rest of us. Sorry. You were saying?”

  “Well, the truth is I just did it. But what if I’d been wrong? What if they’d gotten a full salvo away? What if the salvo had been targeted on Terranova?”

  Xiong shook her head. “If, if, if. Sometimes I think it’s the worst word in the English language. Actually, Michael, it would not have been a problem. Fleet’s pulled back most of the heavy units to cover the home planets. A two-ship attack probably would not have gotten through.” She sighed heavily. “I’m not sure I can say the same thing for a full-scale attack like the one on Comdur, but . . .” Her voice trailed off. The thought of the Hammer dropping an antimatter attack on the Fed Worlds was too much to think about.

  Michael nodded. He looked relieved.

  Xiong regathered her thoughts. “Anyway, enough of that. I have new orders for you and your crew.”

  Michael looked up.

  “Yes, Michael. Orders. We’re going to keep the Adamant here as a temporary base until we’ve offloaded the Eaglehawk missiles. Needless to say, our esteemed government doesn’t want the damned things anywhere near Terranova. A courier ship is on its way; you’ll transfer to that. Now, this may change, but at this stage you’ll get some leave, and then it’s back to the Eridani with another combat command hash mark to add to the one you already have. And that, my boy, is one more than me.” Captain Xiong raised her glass in a mock salute. “Fleet has commed me the authorization already, so next time you’re in dress blacks, make sure you’re properly dressed.”

  Michael blinked. The thought of hash marks obviously had not occurred to him.

  “Oh,” was all he could say.

  Michael watched the holovid intently as the battered wrecks of the McMullins and the Providence Sound fell away.

  Behind the fast courier, the orange strobes of shuttles transporting captured Eaglehawk missiles across to cargo drones flashed brilliantly against the star-dusted blackness of deep space. Now and again, a searing white flash flared up as a drone and its precious cargo accelerated away to what Michael would have bet his life was, after centuries of willful neglect, a seriously reenergized interest in all things antimatter.

  Around the two Hammer ships but pulled well back out of harm’s way in case a missile exploded, were the Fed ships, their hulls visible only as bottomless black shapes cut out of the stars. Now they were home to a small team of defense scientists and engineers laboring desperately to try to work out how the Hammers had done what every Fed scientist would have sworn was impossible.

  Hope they’re dispensable, Michael thought. It seemed to him that poking around antimatter was the quickest way to get a one-way ticket straight into the great unknown.

  Michael closed his eyes as a sudden wave of tiredness broke over him. Antimatter was going to change a lot of things, and space warfare would be one of them. What those changes were he would be happy to wait to find out.

  Soon he was asleep.

  Thursday, April 20, 2400, UD

  FWSS Eridani, berth Bravo-10, Comdur Fleet Base Repair Facility

  “Well, well, well. Look what the cat’s dragged in.”

  “Lieutenant Kidav, sir!” Michael sounded hurt. He crossed the bow and saluted the ship. “Is that any way to greet the allconquering hero fresh from his latest triumph over the forces of darkness?”

  “Hero, my ass,” Kidav replied affectionately, returning the salute. “Lucky is what you are. Lucky, lucky, lucky, and here I am, five years older—”

  “Seven, actually.”

  “Pig!” she conceded good-humoredly. “All right, seven years older, and do I have anything to show for all my years of devoted service? No, not a damn thing.”

  “Not my fault. You should have stuck close to me. How was your temporary command?”

  Kidav scowled, her bantering mood evaporating in a flash. “Well, we got there okay. The poor old Sunfish was a mess,” she said with a frown. “Really gruesome up forward. Horrible. Those damn ship designers need to take radiation impulse shock a bit more seriously than they have been.”

  Michael nodded somberly. It had been a bad week, what with the Hammers firing antimatter missiles toward the home planets every few days. The hidden message was so obvious that even the dumbest politician must have gotten it by now. Pretty simple, really: Surrender or we incinerate your home planets.

  Michael finally broke the silence. “What’s next for us? Any orders?”

  Kidav shook her head. “No, not yet. We undock tomorrow as planned. Back up into parking orbit. That’s all we know right—”

  “All stations, this is command. Stand by for an announcement from the Flag Officer Commanding, Comdur System.”

  Michael and Kidav stared at each other. “Oh, shit,” Kidav muttered. “Please, God, not one of the home planets.” Michael could not speak. He stood there, paralyzed by fear.

  “All stations, this is Rear Admiral Malhotra. I have received a message from the commander in chief, Space Fleet, which message I am directed to read to you. It goes as follows:

  “ ‘To all Fleet personnel. The governments of the Federated Worlds and the Worlds of the Hammer of Kraa have agreed that an armistice will come into effect today at 1200 Universal Time. At that time all military operations will cease, and all forces will disengage and withdraw. Detailed orders specifying how the terms of the armistice are to be met together with revised rules of engagement agreed to by both governments are being sent to all units and commands. The governments of both systems have further agreed that all prisoners of war shall be repatriated together with a full and complete accounting of any deaths in custody by no later than one week from the commencement of the armistice. Upon completion of that repatriation, the two governments have agreed to convene on Scobie’s World to negotiate and agree on the terms of a lasting peace, terms that will address the enduring concerns of the peoples of the Federated Worlds and the Worlds of the Hammer of Kraa.

  “ ‘Signed, Martha Shiu, Admiral, Commander in Chief, Federated Worlds Space Fleet.’

  “That is all.”

  Thursday, May 4, 2400, UD

  FWSS Eridani, Commitment planetary nearspace

  “Commitment command, this is Federated Worlds Warship Eridani with heavy scouts Van Maanen and Groombridge in company inbound from Comdur system calling on 32, over.”

  “Eridani, Commitment command. All ships maintain current vectors. Transmit vessel identities, approved flight plans, and confirmation that all weapons systems are disabled. Over.”

  The operator looked bored, eyes looking off-holocam at something much more interesting than the command crew of a Fed heavy scout. His right hand was fiddling absentmindedly with the old-fashioned headset and boom mike perched on his head.

  “Roger, Commitment command. Stand by.” Tanvi Kidav threw a backward glance across Eridani’s combat information center at Michael. She rolled her eyes theatrically.

  Michael smiled. “Concentrate, sir,” he mouthed silently.

  Kidav nodded, squinting for a moment as she commed the information Commitment command had asked for down the link. It took a while. The datastream had been slowed down to comply with the Hammer’s antiquated data transfer protocols.

  There was a short pause as the Hammers checked and double-checked that Eridani and her sisters were not in fact an entire squadron of Federated Worlds heavy cruisers about to drop in-system to lay waste to Commitment.

  “Eridani, this is Commitment command. Ship identities, flight plans, and weapons systems status confirmed. Maintain current vectors until final approach plan authorized. Contact Commitment nearspace control on vidcomm channel 55, over.”

  “Eridani, vidcomm channel 55, roger, out.”

  Kidav
looked at Lenski, who was sitting silently alongside her. “What do you reckon, skipper? The Hammers are being uncommonly polite, don’t you think?”

  “They are, Tanvi. I hope it doesn’t mean they are saving things up for us. Right, go to 55 and let’s see what they’ve got in store.”

  “Sir.” Kidav commed the channel change.

  Michael, tucked away safely out of sight of the holocam and under strict instructions to stay that way, shivered at the sight of the unlovely features of the Hammer’s duty controller for inbound traffic. An arrogant-looking man, he had an unblinking stare that was extremely disconcerting. Michael took a deep breath. The high-necked black uniform and the Hammer of Kraa sunburst picked out in gold thread on the left breast brought back memories he had spent a great deal of time burying.

  Kidav flicked a glance across at him. “Fuck ’em,” she mouthed.

  “And the horses they rode in on,” Michael mouthed back.

  “Concentrate!” Lenski growled.

  “Sorry, skipper,” Kidav mumbled, turning her attention back to the holovid. “Commitment nearspace control, this is Federated Worlds deepspace heavy scout Eridani with heavy scouts Van Maanen and Groombridge in company inbound to Planetary Transfer Station Zero Three per flight plan. Request approval for final approach, over.”

  “Eridani, this is Commitment nearspace control. Stand by. Transferring final approach plan for PTS Zero Three. Acknowledge receipt.”

  Kidav and Lenski looked at each other in relief. Michael shared the sentiment. Despite all the agreements and planning that had gone into this mission, it would not have surprised either of them if they had been put into a parking orbit for days on end for no good reason other than some imaginary slight against the might and majesty of the Hammer.

  Fortunately, not this time.

  The Hammer controller continued. “You are reminded that deviation from this plan without prior approval from Commitment nearspace control will be met with the immediate use of deadly force. No warnings will be given.”