The Battle of the Hammer Worlds

by Graham Sharp Paul

  “Commitment nearspace control, noted. Stand by.” Kidav nodded confirmation to Lenski that the approach plan had been received, had been passed by Mother as sensible, and was not going to run them headlong into the station or some other large, hard object in orbit around Commitment. “Approach plan received. Eridani with Van Maanen and Groombridge in company commencing final approach to Planetary Transfer Station Zero Three. Eridani, out.”

  Kidav broke the link without waiting for the Hammer operator to acknowledge. Lenski leaned across. “Tanvi, I know this is the first time you’ve seen them up close, but don’t let it get to you.”

  “Sorry, skipper.”

  Lenski turned to Michael. “And remember, young man. Stay out of sight. We’ve got people to bring home.”

  “Sir.”

  Michael stared moodily at the holovid as Eridani circled endlessly around Commitment, her two companions trailing along behind her like tame dogs.

  Below Eridani, the planet Commitment was a dramatic sight as the terminator raced across the planet’s chaotic mix of whites, blues, greens, and browns. It had been three days since they had dropped into Hammer space, and after a brief stay alongside the planetary transfer station—the ships had been treated as though they carried the Black Death—the Hammers had ordered them to unberth and move into low orbit. So they had, no doubt waiting for some mindless Hammer bureaucrat to decide that the prisoner transfer could go ahead.

  “Looks pretty.”

  Michael swung around. It was Bienefelt. “Oh, hi, Matti. Yes, it is pretty, but so is a well-chiseled tombstone. It’s the corruption underneath you’ve got to focus on.” His voice was bitter. He’d seen the list of prisoners to be repatriated together with what the Hammers were pleased to call the nonreturnees list. Nonreturnees! For a very long time Michael had stared at the list, anger never far from the surface.

  Aaron Stone. Poor bastard. Even though he had made it out of Camp I-2355 and across Koenig’s High Pass to the safety of the Forest of Gwyr, he had not survived; the injuries he had sustained had been way beyond the capabilities of Fellsworth’s medics to fix. On top of the stick lost crossing Koenig’s, sixteen more had died along the way. Most from accidents, though four had died when their patrol had been caught in the open by two Hammer assault landers.

  Not that Michael cared much how they had died. Dead was dead.

  What he did know was that they all had died because of the Hammer, and one day there would be a reckoning. Fellsworth had made it. So had Chief Ichiro and the man-mountain himself, Marine Murphy. Leading Spacer Petrovic, too. Even the mutineers had made it; Michael would have traded them for Aaron Stone in a heartbeat. Apart from Fellsworth, they all would be taken home in the Groombridge, and so he would have to wait until Terranova to see how they had fared. There had been some good news, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

  “Command, Mother. Incoming vidcomm, channel 37.”

  “Matti, take this, would you,” Michael called. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

  “Sure.”

  The impassive face of the latest in a long line of black-uniformed Hammers to talk to the Eridani appeared on the holovid. “Eridani, Commitment nearspace control.”

  “Eridani.”

  “Up-shuttle with returnees per manifests will be with you in thirty minutes. Contact up-shuttle call sign Golf Charlie 6 on vidcomm channel 75, over.”

  “Eridani, roger. Up-shuttle call sign Golf Charlie six on vidcomm channel seventy-five. Out.”

  Bienefelt looked across at Michael. He was silent for a moment. “Matti, tell the skipper while I comm our friends to let them know.”

  With the van Maanen and Groombridge duly informed, Michael waited while Bienefelt briefed Lenski before activating the main broadcast. “All stations, this is command. Stand by to receive shuttle port side in three zero minutes. Ishaqs returning.”

  Michael commed Kidav.

  Kidav’s cheerful face popped up in his neuronics. “Hi, Michael. What can I do for you?”

  “You heard the broadcast?”

  Kidav looked pleased. “Sure did. Finally!”

  “Yes, finally. Favor to ask.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Can you take over the watch from me? I would like to be at the dock when the Ishaqs get here.”

  Kidav winced. “Oh, shit, Michael. Of course. Sorry, I didn’t think.”

  “That’s all right. When you’re ready.”

  “On my way.”

  In the end the up-shuttle had taken more like an hour, but finally it had docked. Michael stayed back, standing apart from the rest of the Eridani’s crew. Nobody knew quite what to expect. All they had been given was a list of names.

  At last, the transfer air lock swung open with a tiny hiss of air as the two ships equalized. Then two DocSec troopers, a sergeant and a corporal, armed with stun guns and stiffly arrogant in their trademark black jumpsuits appeared. Michael had to hold himself back as red rage ripped into him. He was a hairbreadth away from diving across the brilliantly lit air lock to tear their throats out. By some miracle, he held himself back.

  After a cursory look around, the DocSec troopers seemed satisfied. Standing back, they looked on impassively as first one, then another, and then a procession of emaciated spacers half walked, half staggered into view. Their desperation to be clear of their Hammer captors was plain to see, the tattered remnants of shipsuits the only thing marking them out as Feds.

  For a moment, the Eridanis hung back, stunned by the appalling sight of Ishaq’s crew. Then something snapped, and ignoring the DocSec troopers’ protests, they rushed forward as one to help the struggling spacers on board, Michael in there with the rest of them. Then he saw her, her smile the only hint that this tattered, limping human being, her grimy face pulled tight across high cheekbones by hunger, was Lieutenant Commander Fellsworth. He snapped to attention and saluted.

  Fellsworth shook her head. “For fuck’s sake, cut it out, Michael. Give me a hand before I fall over.”

  Holding her up, he got Fellsworth on board Eridani only seconds before she collapsed; a gurney was slid into place hurriedly to catch her. Michael knelt down beside her, his face close to hers.

  “I won’t ask how it was, sir,” Michael whispered, taking her hand in his.

  “No, don’t. I expect you to buy the vid. It’s going to fund my retirement.” She smiled, but her eyes did not. “Michael! I must tell you. You did well to get word out. Very well. We would all have died otherwise. We all owe you, and Corporal Yazdi, of course. Is she here?”

  Michael shook his head, the pain on his face obvious. “No, sir. She didn’t make it.”

  “Shit.” Fellsworth’s eyes closed for a second. “Those Hammer pricks didn’t tell me that.” She lifted her head to look right at Michael, her hand squeezing his hard, her grip surprisingly strong and painfully tight. “You know where she is?”

  Michael nodded. “Graves registration found her. She’s coming back with us.”

  Fellsworth’s voice was tight with a fierce intensity. “Good. Well, let me tell you something. They’ll pay for this. They’ll damn well pay.”

  “They will. They sure as hell will.”

  Fellsworth held his hand tight for a moment before her eyes rolled up and her head fell back onto the gurney, her arm dropping away. Michael carefully put it back by her side and, unable to speak, waved the medics to take her away.

  Eventually, every living Ishaq was accounted for, but Eridani had one more Ishaq to take home. With a heavy heart, Michael and every one of the Eridani’s crew not on duty fell in on either side of the air lock, unmoving.

  It seemed like a long wait to Michael, though it probably wasn’t. Finally, four Hammer civilians in gray shipsuits appeared carrying a narrow rectangular box of cheap gray plasfiber, placing it carefully on the threshold of Eridani’s air lock.

  Michael stood in silence. Corporal Yazdi was coming home. He had fulfilled that promise at least. As the crew came to attention and sa
luted as one, four Eridanis stepped forward to carry the mortal remains of the little marine back on board.

  To his dying day, Michael did not know why he did what he did next. Even as he stepped forward, he knew it was stupid, something Lenski pointed out to him in extremely colorful and un-Fleet-like language later. But stupid or not, he did it. While the Eridani’s executive officer checked and signed the clipboard presented to him by the DocSec corporal to confirm that the Eridanis had all the Ishaqs they were entitled to, Michael slipped unnoticed across to stand alongside the black jumpsuited sergeant.

  He stuck his face right up close to the man’s. “Sergeant,” he whispered, “I have a message I would like you to pass on.”

  The DocSec sergeant stared at him. “Eh? What?” he mumbled, confused.

  “It’s for Colonel Erwin Hartspring of Doctrinal Security. Know him?”

  “No.” The sergeant shook his head. “No, don’t think I do.”

  “Well, not to worry. Colonel Erwin Hartspring. He’s a big cheese. Section 22, I think, based in McNair. Now, this is important. Tell him Michael sends his regards and looks forward to seeing him again one day. Got that?”

  The sergeant nodded uncertainly. “Michael sends his regards and looks forward to seeing him one day. Yes. Got it,” he muttered.

  “But,” Michael continued, looking around theatrically, “for Kraa’s sake, don’t say anything to anybody until we’ve jumped. Otherwise . . .” He drew a finger across his throat, nodding his head back toward the Eridani.

  “Er, right.” By then the sergeant looked completely baffled. “Got all that? And for Kraa’s sake, say nothing until we’ve jumped. Okay?”

  The DocSec sergeant nodded. Bewildered, he watched Michael walk back on board Eridani, the air lock doors thudding shut behind him.

  Five minutes later, the three heavy scouts and their precious cargo made a high-g departure. Main engines pushed to emergency power punched pillars of white-hot flame planetward, with the Hammers’ increasingly strident demands to reduce thrust completely ignored.

  Tuesday, June 13, 2400, UD

  Korndapp Mountain Resort, Scobie’s World

  Chief Councillor Polk walked out onto the sprawling deck that fronted his suite. It was going to be a beautiful day, and in more ways than one, he promised himself.

  He took a deep breath. The mountain air was pure and cool, the early morning sun cutting long slanting bars of light and dark through the mist eddying up from the valley far below him. In the distance, the Korndapp Range dominated the horizon, its rock faces thousands of meters high. Long tendrils of meltwater dropped down walls slashed by vertical fissures and ravines, unraveling into thin white skeins that twisted and danced in the early morning breeze. Above them, snowfields dusted a soft pink by the morning light crowned impossibly sharp peaks climbing high into the sky, a few stars still bright against the fading blue-black of night.

  It was stunning, and in more ways than one.

  Polk had to laugh out loud; he could not help himself. The sheer joy of presiding over the final humiliation of the Federated Worlds was as good as any drug. No, it was better, much better, because today was the start of something that would cement his position as chief councillor until the day he died. There was a wonderful twist to it all, though it was a minor detail, a mere bagatelle. Even so, it greatly amused him every time he thought of it. The Polk clan owned the Korndapp Mountain Resort, home to the negotiations with the Feds. Not that anyone knew that, of course. The endless layers of nominee companies and blind trusts were completely opaque; his many enemies had never found out, and if they could not, the damned Feds never would, either.

  Polk laughed out loud. Even he had trouble keeping up with the Byzantine complexities of the Polk clan’s business affairs.

  Ah, the wonderful, delicious irony of it all, he thought. The Feds were paying the Polk clan for using the Korndapp Mountain Resort, the place where he would make their defeat final and absolute, where the foundations of future Hammer greatness would be laid.

  Friday, June 16, 2400, UD

  FWSS Eridani, in orbit around Comdur Fleet Base

  “Come in, Michael. With you in a tick.” Lenski waved him into a seat.

  “Thank you, sir.” Michael sat down. What on earth was going on?

  Lenski finished what she was doing and, pushing her chair away from her desk, turned to look right at him. “Well, Michael. All good things come to an end.”

  “Sir?” Michael said, puzzled.

  “Yeah, apologies, Michael. Teasing my officers. Bad habit of mine. Anyway, I have orders for you, a new posting, I’m sorry to say. We’re going to miss you.”

  “A new posting?” Michael looked shocked. This he had not expected. “Where to? Why so soon? I’ve only been in the Eridani for what, two months?”

  “Not even that. Anyway, you’re posted to leave immediately, and then it seems the Fleet Advanced Projects Unit has need of you, reporting to one Commander Baker care of the Transit Officers Quarters, Comdur base, by no later than 0900, July 3. And before you ask, no, I haven’t the faintest idea what the Fleet Advanced Projects Unit actually does, so don’t bother asking me. All I know is that they run out of Comdur.”

  “Baker,” Michael said thoughtfully, dredging through his neuronics until he found the recording he had made. “Yes, Commander Baker. I know him. I met him during the Hammer attack on Comdur. Seemed like a smart man.”

  “That’s as may be, Michael. Far more important is your farewell dining out. Don’t care what you’re doing tomorrow night. Clear your diary and make sure you have your drinking boots on. You’re going to need them.”

  As the dirtside shuttle pulled away from the Eridani, Michael had mixed feelings about leaving.

  He had enjoyed his short time in Eridani. She was a great ship, and he was sorry to be leaving so early. Lenski was one of the better captains around, and leaving Bienefelt behind was a blow. Michael was not superstitious, but he could not shake a deep and growing conviction that the huge woman brought him luck.

  However, the Advanced Projects Unit sounded intriguing, and if Commander Baker was anything to go by, it might prove to be an interesting place, though he wondered why they wanted a junior lieutenant. He prayed it was not for some bullshit administrative post.

  Anyway, the Advanced Projects Unit was a problem for another day. Damishqui was in one of the orbiting shipyards around Paradise for planned maintenance, and after a heart-stoppingly long delay, Anna had agreed to meet up.

  Quite where things went from there, Michael could not be sure, but he had put his foot on a nice beachside shack dirtside on Paradise, and if all went well . . .

  The only sounds were the soft rustle of palm trees and the gentle intermittent hiss of the surf as it ran up a beach invisible in the darkness beyond the light thrown by a single, guttering candle.

  Michael was drowning in Anna Cheung’s eyes, the outside world slipping effortlessly away as he drifted down, hopelessly, utterly lost. He could not help himself; he never could. The first time he had met her, a lifetime ago as a brand-new cadet, her eyes had been the first thing he had noticed. Every time they met, they had the same hypnotic effect on him, an effect that made the rest of the world fade away into irrelevance.

  “Michael!” Anna said sharply. “For heaven’s sake, pay attention!”

  Michael came back to earth with a bump. “Oh, sorry, Anna. Honestly, you really should wear glasses. Dark glasses.”

  Anna laughed softly. Michael’s addiction to her eyes was the longest of long-running private jokes, even if it did drive her to distraction at times.

  “Michael! Concentrate!”

  “Yes, will do. Sorry,” he said contritely.

  “Thank you so much,” she said with exaggerated patience. Screwing up her courage, she took a deep breath before resuming. “Look. I understand you want to, well . . . I know what . . . How can . . . Shit! I’m making a real mess of this, aren’t I?” she whispered, putting her head in her
hands to hide the tears that suddenly flooded her eyes. “Crap, crap, crap,” she muttered. She looked up, wiping her eyes. “Goddamn it, Michael. I know what you want, I really do. Even though in the best part of what, six hours, you haven’t actually managed to say it out loud.”

  Michael looked guilty. She was right. He had been so afraid that Anna would tell him to get lost that his speech—carefully rehearsed a thousand times over—never saw the light of day.

  Anna looked right at him, remnant tears dusting her eyes with tiny jewels, gold in the candlelight. “So believe me. If we were anything other than Fleet officers,” she said fiercely, taking another deep breath, “I would bloody well ask you to marry me, settle down, get a day job, have kids, the whole nine yards.”

  She shook her head despairingly. “But damn it, Michael! We’re Fleet officers. Another war with the Hammers is definitely in the cards no matter what those bloody politicians might say. So I’m sorry. It won’t work. I can’t make that sort of commitment right now. Nor can you, Michael Wallace Helfort. Especially you. God knows, you seem to have a death wish. So . . .” She shook her head again. “Commitment? Marriage? Forget it. It’s not possible, Michael. Surely you know that.”

  Miserably, Michael stared at her. With unerring accuracy, she had picked out the fatal flaw in his position. “So what do we do? Jesus, Anna. Is that it for us? All over?”

  “No, you dummy,” she whispered fondly, shaking her head. “Of course it’s not. Look. I love you. You love me. So that’ll have to do until things settle down. Every chance we can, we’ll get together. Every leave, every day off, every chance. Okay?”

  Michael nodded miserably. “Suppose so,” he muttered.

  “Bloody hell!” Anna frowned. “Suppose so. Suppose so! Is that all you can say?”

  Michael shook his head. “No, it’s not.” He looked at her for a long time, a small smile ghosting across his face. “There’s lots more. So come for a swim, Anna Cheung, and I might give you the benefit of my wisdom if you play your . . . Ow!” he howled. Anna’s leather sandalled foot had smacked hard into his shin.