The battle at the Moons of Hell hw-1 Read online

  The battle at the Moons of Hell

  ( Helfort's war - 1 )

  Graham Sharp Paul

  Graham Sharp Paul

  The battle at the Moons of Hell

  Friday, July 10, 2398, Universal Date (UD)

  Federated Worlds Space Fleet College, Terranova Planet

  Rear Admiral Jan Fielding, the flag officer commanding, Federated Worlds Space Fleet College, sat back in her chair and sighed heavily as she turned to the large picture window behind her desk.

  “I don’t like this one little bit, Joseph,” she said, staring out at the broad expanse of parade ground across which squads of first-year cadets moved like small black robots, harassed and harangued every step of the way by other small black robots. But Fielding saw none of them, her face troubled and drawn.

  The tall, solidly built man standing slightly to one side nodded as Fielding turned back to her desk. “Not many of us do, sir. But now that Admiral al-Rawahy has endorsed the official report of the board of inquiry, there’s nothing more to be done. But at least the matter was dealt with administratively rather than under military justice.”

  “I know, I know. But Admiral al-Rawahy’s as concerned about this whole matter as we are.”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir.” Bukenya’s voice was so deliberately diplomatic, the sharp-edged planes that made up his face so carefully arranged into an expressionless blue-black mask, that Fielding couldn’t help smiling.

  “Yes, yes. Quite right, Joseph.” Fielding accepted the unspoken criticism. What admirals might or might not have said to each other was not something she should be talking about. “Okay, let’s get on with it.”

  “Sir.” Turning, Bukenya moved to the door and pulled it open a little too sharply, Fielding thought. Let’s not make it any worse than it already is, she told herself.

  “Senior Cadet Helfort? The admiral will see you now.”

  “Sir!”

  The young man, immaculate in razor-creased dress blacks, marched into the room and came rigidly to attention in front of the battered oak desk, a relic from Old Earth, it was said. Only a slight trembling of the fingertips and a thin sheen of sweat across the forehead betrayed his feelings. The admiral watched as Michael Helfort fought to slow his breathing before looking her square in the eye.

  “Senior Cadet Helfort, sir.”

  “At ease, Helfort.”

  “Sir.”

  For a moment Fielding found herself dragged back more years than she cared to think about. It had been a long time since she had last seen Helfort’s father, but the boy could have been he. Relatively short by Fed standards, Michael Helfort had his father’s well-muscled, thickset build, the shoulders broad, the same untidy hair. A fraction too long, though, even for a senior cadet about to graduate, she noted. The eyes were his father’s, too, hazel in color and deeply set in a faced tanned to a dark brown. But most noticeable was the way he looked at her; he might have his father’s eyes, but he had his mother’s penetratingly direct gaze. She’d been a very fine officer, as Fielding recalled, and a loss to Space Fleet; some even said that Kerri Helfort had been the finest rear admiral Space Fleet had never had.

  The admiral shook herself. This was no time for reminiscing, no time for worrying, though she didn’t like to think about what Helfort’s parents would say when they got the news. She turned her eyes back to the old-fashioned paper document that sat dead center on the otherwise empty desk. The single page of thick cream-colored paper, signed by Vice Admiral al-Rawahy and sealed with his massive red wax seal, heavy with the power and might of the Federated Worlds, mocked her concerns. Leaning forward slightly, she started to read, her voice flat and colorless.

  “To Senior Cadet Michael Wallace Helfort, serial number FC021688J.

  “From Vice Admiral Abdulla bin Issa al-Rawahy, director of Fleet training, Federated Worlds Space Fleet.”

  Fielding paused. This was not right. Michael just stood there motionless, the sweat threatening to bead across his forehead.

  Fielding forced herself to continue.

  “Whereas the board of inquiry convened by my authority on Monday 15 June 2398 Universal Date, having reviewed all relevant evidence and having heard all persons with knowledge of the matter under inquiry, namely, the unsafe operation of Planetary Heavy Lander (Assault) Registration Number PHLA-789465 while under your command on Thursday 14 May 2398, Universal Date contrary to OPS-MAN-PHLA-2245, has completed its report.

  “And, whereas the conclusion of the board of inquiry that you, Senior Cadet Michael W. Helfort, did act in a manner risking injury or death to crew, passengers, and ground-based civilians has been endorsed by me following my full and detailed review of the report of the board of inquiry, I hereby delegate the matter for administrative action by your military commander, Rear Admiral Jan Carlotta Fielding, Flag Officer commanding, Space Fleet College of the Federated Worlds.

  “Signed and sealed this day, Friday 3 July 2398 Universal Date, by me, Abdulla bin Issa al-Rawahy, vice admiral, director of Fleet training, Federated Worlds Space Fleet.”

  Fielding placed the document back on the desk, taking a moment to position it dead center before looking up directly into the eyes of the young man in front of her, eyes that, she was pleased to see, looked straight back at her unblinkingly.

  “Senior Cadet Helfort. Do you understand what I have just said?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are there any questions that you would like to ask at this stage?”

  “No, sir.” Helfort stood unmoving, the sweat beading on his forehead threatening to run down into his eyes.

  Fielding nodded. “Very well. In that case, I am required by Article 2349.7 of the Federated Worlds Code of Military Justice to ask you whether or not you accept the findings of the board of inquiry. If you do not, and it is your right not to, the report of the board of inquiry together with any comments by Vice Admiral al-Rawahy will be forwarded to the commander in chief, Federated Worlds Space Fleet, for further review. If you do accept the findings, it rests with me to determine the administrative action to be taken as a consequence of the report. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you require further time to consider your answer or to consult any natural person or any licensed AI-generated persona?”

  “No, sir. I do not.”

  “Very well. What is your decision?”

  “Sir, I accept the findings of the board,” Helfort said stiffly.

  Thank God, thought the admiral. She had watched Helfort through half-closed eyes as he’d struggled to make the right decision. You are your parents’ son, she thought, and you’ve made the right decision even if that painful fact may not be clear to you right now.

  “Very well. Lieutenant Commander Bukenya will attest to your decision, a copy of which will be commed to you and to your personnel file.

  “It now falls to me to prescribe what administrative action shall be taken as a consequence of the report of the board of inquiry.” She paused while Bukenya handed her a second thick cream-colored document, this one marked with her own red seal, smaller than al-Rawahy’s but still impressive. As it always did, it struck her how archaic a lump of red wax stamped onto a bit of paper really was even if it was DNA-coded and time-stamped to make the document unarguably genuine. But still, that was the way things were done in the Federated Worlds Space Fleet, as they always had been. Who was she to argue?

  The admiral started to read in the same flat voice she had used before, utterly devoid of emotion. As she watched, Helfort stood ramrod straight with an impassive look on his face. He didn’t blink even when a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and into his lef
t eye. “First, the conclusion of the board of inquiry shall be noted in your personnel file for a period of five years unless extended by the administrative decision of a duly qualified authority.

  “Second, you shall requalify as command pilot on the planetary heavy lander subject to your achieving an overall qualification score of not less than 98 percent.

  “Third, all additional seniority due to you by virtue of your academic and professional performance while a cadet is void. Therefore, upon graduation, your seniority date as a junior lieutenant shall be 1 September 2398.”

  For the first time Michael visibly flinched. Twelve months’ seniority, the product of three hard years of effort, gone. Just like that.

  Fielding placed the document on the desk. “An attested digital copy of Admiral al-Rawahy’s endorsement and my administrative actions will be commed to your file. These hard copies are for your own personal records.” Fielding pushed the two papers to the front of the desk.

  Michael just stared at them. “Sir.”

  “Well, pick them up, Helfort; they won’t bite.”

  “Sir.”

  With all the reluctance of a man about to pick up a red-hot poker, Helfort reached forward to take the documents from the desk. Somehow Fielding knew that Helfort would never look at them again.

  “Unless there is anything else in relation to this matter that you wish to raise at this time, you are dismissed.”

  “No, sir. Nothing.” Helfort came to attention, turned, and was gone almost before Fielding and Bukenya realized it.

  As the door closed, Bukenya looked at the admiral. “He will see that as very harsh, especially the loss of seniority. That’ll put him behind some real, uh”-Bukenya paused-“some real underachievers.”

  The admiral smiled briefly at Bukenya’s understatement. He should have said “jerks” because that was what some of her students were despite the best efforts of the college staff to turn them into half-decent Fleet officers. “He will. And that’s why I want you to talk to him. His new skipper is a good man. And I just happen to know they are in for some interesting work. So tell him to hang in and let him know that I will be talking to Ribot on his behalf. Despite what the board of inquiry says, he’s a very good officer, an outstanding officer, in fact, and we do not want to lose him. But for God’s sake tell him to say nothing about what you talk about.”

  Bukenya half smiled. “Deniability, sir?”

  “Damn right. Now go to it; I’ve got things to do. One of which is putting a vidmail together telling his parents what I’ve had to do to their son.”

  As Bukenya left, the admiral leaned back in her chair as she commed her flag lieutenant.

  “John, can you contact Admiral al-Rawahy’s secretary and tell him that I would like to speak to the admiral, please.”

  Michael’s stomach churned with the absolute, total wrongness of it all. He half walked, half ran down the stairs from the admiral’s office. Two first-year cadets were firmly shoved aside as he pounded down to the ground floor and out into the hot Terranovan sun. His neuronics chimed softly to tell him that the team was waiting for him in the senior cadets’ mess. Bugger them; they could all wait. Head down, he charged on, unseeing.

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Senior Cadet Helfort, or should I say Mister Helfort, late of the Federated Worlds Space Fleet.”

  Michael stopped dead in his tracks. He didn’t need to turn around to see who had spoken. The anger roared in his head. Uncaring, he turned to face the small group that stood casually against the wall of the admin building. Bastards, he thought. They’ve been waiting for me to come out. Without thinking, his fists balled and he closed in. “You fucking bastard, d’Castreaux. I’m going to kill you for this.”

  D’Castreaux paused for a few long moments and smiled. “I think Mister Helfort is upset. What do you think, Jasmina?”

  Senior Cadet Jasmina Karayan smiled back. “I think his dad’s going to kill him. Don’t you?”

  At that point Michael snapped, starting toward d’Castreaux, hands coming up to wring the life out of the sneering scumbag who stood in front of him.

  “Helfort!” Bukenya’s voice was like a steel wire whipped across the back of Michael’s neck. He stopped, hands only centimeters from d’Castreaux’s throat. Instantly, the anger was gone, replaced by an ice-cold certainty.

  “Another day, d’Castreaux,” Michael hissed. “Depend on it.” Michael turned to face Bukenya, coming rigidly to attention.

  “Sir.”

  Bukenya pointedly ignored him. “You four. Do you have business in administration?”

  “No, sir,” the four chorused like four submissive but still triumphant sheep.

  “Right. Present in an inappropriate area without reasonable grounds. Fifty demerits each. Now get out of my sight.”

  The four snapped to attention, saluted, turned, and marched smartly away. But every step told Bukenya that they thought fifty demerits was a very cheap price to pay for the pleasure of seeing Helfort fresh from his place of execution.

  Pausing only to comm the demerits into the cadet’s files, Bukenya stood in front of Michael. “You are a bloody young fool, Helfort. My office, now.”

  “Sir.”

  “Close the door and sit down, Michael.”

  Michael did as he was told and perched uncomfortably on the edge of a battered armchair. He had heard Bukenya swear it came from the wardroom of the old Adventure. Michael had looked it up: The Adventure had been scrapped after receiving severe damage at the First Battle of Jackson’s World back in ’37, so it was possible. But how a serving spacer could lug around a large, lumpy, and extremely unattractive sixty-year-old armchair was something he thought could be open to question. But not now. He jerked his mind away from the subject of Bukenya’s armchair-funny how you could think of something so totally irrelevant at a time like this-and focused his gaze in the approved college style directly onto Bukenya’s face.

  Bukenya’s tone was harsh. “This conversation never occurred; if asked, all we discussed were your future prospects and how you could best put the matters of the last few months behind you. Call it psychological and career counseling. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Clear, sir,” Michael said, wondering what on earth this had to do with the unsafe operation of Federated Worlds Planetary Heavy Lander (Assault) Registration Number PHLA-789465 while under his command contrary to blah blah blah.

  Bukenya sat back in his chair, another battered and lumpy example of the species. His voice softened. “Goddammit, Michael. Why did you let those fools provoke you? They’re not worth it.”

  Bukenya paused as he struggled back out of his armchair to go to a small cupboard behind his desk, from which he produced a bottle of twelve-year-old Gabrielli whiskey. Well depleted, Michael noted in passing.

  “Who would have thought that a planet largely settled by Italian migrants would have such a way with malted barley?” Bukenya poured two generous measures and passed a glass across to Michael, who still sat perched uncomfortably on the edge of his chair, totally confused by Bukenya’s behavior. The fact that he still had a future in the Space Fleet was just starting to sink in-d’Castreaux hadn’t been the only one expecting Michael’s career to be cut short-and with it the dim beginnings of hope, but he was still reeling from the impact of the admiral’s words. The loss of seniority, the fact that his precious leave would be cut short by having to requalify as command pilot on one of the college’s long-suffering and very battered heavy landers-and with a minimum 98 percent rating no less! — and not least what his father, Captain A. G. Helfort FWSF (retired), and mother, Commodore K. D. A. Helfort FWSF (retired), would have to say, hurt and hurt badly. He drank deeply from the glass and felt the burn as the alcohol slipped smoothly down his throat.

  “Ready to talk?” Bukenya was back in the depths of his armchair. Michael nodded.

  “The admiral wanted me to talk to you off the record, as it were. You need to understand that there are…well, there are
a number of people who…Let’s just say there are people who are not very happy at what just occurred. You have one of the best records of any cadet, not just in your year but also for as long as people can remember. So the idea that you risked the lives of your crew and of innocent civilians on the ground by deliberately resetting the terrain avoidance system to manual just to impress people like d’Castreaux and Narayan is frankly incredible.

  “If I know anything at all, Helfort,” Bukenya said intently, leaning forward, “I know that you understand your limitations. You don’t yet have the skill or experience to pilot a lander at low level without the terrain avoidance system engaged, and you know it.”

  Bukenya sat back in his chair before continuing. “So if you did not reset terrain avoidance, then who else did it but one of your two fellow crew members, most likely d’Castreaux? As your tactical officer, he was the only one who had the authority apart from you, though how he did it without leaving a proper execute record in the log is something the lander design authority is looking into.” Even if, Bukenya thought bitterly, that same design authority hadn’t been able to bring itself to admit to the board of inquiry that there might have been deficiencies in the lander’s datalogging system, that there might in fact be a way around the access security protocols.

  “Is that what you think, sir? Is that what the admiral thinks?” The forlorn hope in Michael’s voice tore at Bukenya.

  “For what it’s worth, and I’m sorry to say it’s not much, it is what we think. It’s what a lot of people think. Your parents are well remembered in the Fleet and still command great respect and affection, which helps. But the sworn evidence of two Federation officers under oath backing up the datalogs showing that you or, rather, someone in the command pilot’s seat did in fact set the system to manual just to show off is all it takes to prove you a liar, I’m afraid. Even the Fleet legal service couldn’t shake them, and you know how tough they are.”

  “But sir-”