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

  Bukenya’s hand went up to stop Michael cold. “And regardless, you were the command pilot. So even if d’Castreaux and Narayan did what you say they did, you should have picked it up. Without terrain avoidance, a lander is a lethally dangerous lump of metal at low level, and you were in command, Michael. You should have spotted it. No excuses. Just a pity that nobody had their neuronics set to full recording to catch d’Castreaux in the act.

  “But the admiral does want you to know that she believes in you, that many in the Space Fleet believe in you. More important, she wants you to believe in you. But you have to put this behind you and move on. As for the d’Castreauxs and Narayans of this world, let their futures take care of themselves. I think you’ll find that…well, let’s just say that history has a way of repeating itself.”

  Michael thought about that for a few seconds, and then it clicked. “You mean d’Castreaux’s father, sir? I heard about that. Discharged in ’81 or something.” Michael paused as the implications of Bukenya’s words sank in. “But I thought that he-”

  Again Bukenya’s hand stopped Michael dead.

  “Forget I even mentioned it. It really doesn’t matter what happened. Eighty-one was a long time ago. What matters is what happens now, next month, next year. And speaking of next month, the admiral will be speaking to Lieutenant Ribot, your new captain. I know Ribot, and so does the admiral: We served together in the Ulugh Beg. He’s a good man and a fair one, so make the most of the opportunities he will give you.”

  “Sir.” There was nothing more that Michael could say.

  “And Michael.”

  “Sir?”

  “Ignore d’Castreaux and his crew. Thanks to some serious work behind the scenes, you are still in the Fleet. So when you see them, by all means make the most of that small victory. But physically assaulting d’Castreaux or Narayan is one surefire way of making all that hard work a waste of time. And that, young man, would seriously upset some people you shouldn’t upset.”

  Michael sat for two long quiet minutes, head hanging, as he struggled with the enormity of the defeat that d’Castreaux and Narayan had inflicted on him. Finally, his head came up.

  “Okay. It still hurts like hell, but Space Fleet is the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do with my life, so no, I won’t throw it all away.”

  “Good. And remember, say nothing to anyone. Not even your parents.”

  “I won’t, sir.”

  “Oh, and once again, irrespective of who sets the terrain avoidance system, remember that it’s always your responsibility as command pilot. And put your neuronics to full recording when you’re around people you don’t trust. Now, finish your whiskey and go. I’ve got work to do.”

  “Sir.”

  The team looked at Michael in stunned disbelief.

  The tightly knit group who were Michael’s closest friends had crammed into his tiny cabin to hear the outcome of the board action and were having as much trouble as Michael coming to terms with the enormity of the injustice. Ramesh Gupta, perched awkwardly on the corner of Michael’s dresser-even he, strong and sinewy as he was, could not displace Karen Sutler’s massive hundred-kilo frame from its commanding position in the middle of the battered relic that probably had seen generations of cadets pass through-actually had his mouth wide open in shock. Nicco Guzevic was twisting his beret to the point where it was beginning to come apart; David ben-Gurion, Karen Jacowitz, and Charles Mbeki stared wide-eyed in disbelief, and Bronwyn Kriketos had tears in her eyes.

  “The slimeball pigs.”

  As ever, Anna Cheung was the first to speak. And then, all at once, the entire group was in full flow. If words were deeds, d’Castreaux and Narayan were dead meat.

  “Guys, guys, guys.” Michael held up his hands until the rush of swear words, abuse, and threats of grievous bodily harm slowed to a stop with a final “Bastards” from Michael Takahashi and an “I’ll tear d’Castreaux’s fucking head off” from Jemma Alhamid. Slight as Jemma was, Michael knew she could and would if she got half a chance.

  “Look. They could have thrown me out, but they didn’t. And at the moment that’s all I care about. As for d’Castreaux and Narayan, well, let me just say that their time will come. But it’ll be when I’m ready and not before. Understand?”

  “But Michael, how can you be so, well, so rational about this? I don’t understand.” Anna’s green eyes bored into Michael, and his heart kicked, as it always did when she looked right into him like that.

  “Because I know what I really want, and I’m not going to let a pack of low-life creeps put me off track. Besides, as Bukenya said, irrespective of who touches a lander’s controls, it was my responsibility as command pilot.”

  This time Michael did not try to stop the torrent of words; he figured that it was not a bad thing to have the team think that Bukenya was being a smart-ass even though in their hearts they all knew Bukenya was right. Michael sat back, jammed into the corner, and enjoyed the residual warmth from Bukenya’s whiskey until the flood subsided. He let the silence stretch until he had the team’s full attention.

  “So this is what we are going to do. Fuck them all, I say. The Dog and Duck at 20:00 to celebrate my survival. Be there on pain of death. And for God’s sake, one of you make sure I get home okay. I don’t want another session in front of the admiral ever again.”

  Anna stared at him as if he were mad. They all did. And then she flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck so tightly that for a moment Michael thought he might choke.

  The provost marshal’s neuronics chimed softly, interrupting a deep and meaningful, if slightly one-sided, conversation with two first-year cadets guilty of the unspeakable crime of not moving from A to B with sufficient speed. “Go. Don’t do it again,” he said to the two cadets, who left in a hurry, astonished not to have picked up an unwelcome load of demerits.

  The admiral’s avatar bloomed in his neuronics as he accepted the comm, her AI-generated image absolutely faithful right down to the steely look in her eyes. It was a look that marked Rear Admiral Jan Fielding as a woman not to be trifled with.

  “Admiral, sir. What can I do for you?”

  “Vasili. You’ve heard the news about Helfort?”

  “I have, sir. And I’m pleased to hear that the Fleet won’t lose him, after all. He’s a good lad.”

  “I agree. But Vasili, I am concerned that tempers are running high and that there may be trouble. I think it would be better if…well, if certain people were on duty tonight.”

  “Would those be the people I have just detailed off for spaceport patrol tonight, sir?”

  “If the patrol includes d’Castreaux and Narayan, then yes.” What a pleasure it was, the admiral thought for a moment, to work with people who were ahead of her.

  “Done, sir. And my spies tell me that the Dog and Duck is the focus of tonight’s activities, so I’ll have Petty Officer Nu’lini and the shore patrol close at hand just in case. And I’ll keep an eye out to make sure things stay under control.”

  “You are a good man, Vasili.” The admiral chuckled. “Just make sure Petty Officer Nu’lini understands that there are to be no defaulters at the commander’s table tomorrow. None. Well, not from the vicinity of the Dog and Duck, that is.”

  “Understood, sir. None it will be.”

  “Good night, Vasili.”

  As the landlord of the Dog and Duck shoveled a disheveled and very drunk Michael and the rest the team out the front door and into the early hours of a cool clear Terranovan night, the singing started.

  “Oh, back of Casmirati, where the waters runs deep…”

  But it was sad and mournful, all anger gone, for the moment at least.

  The provost marshal grinned as he commed Petty Officer Nu’lini before gunning his jeep down the side road back to his house and his sleeping wife.

  “Make sure they get home okay, Jack.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  Thursday, July 16, 2398, UD

  Offices o
f the Supreme Council for the Preservation of the Faith, City of McNair, Commitment Planet

  “Chief Councillor?”

  The old-fashioned intercom on the massive paper-strewn desk interrupted Jesse Merrick’s concentrated study of the substantial document in front of him. Not for him the convenience of face-mounted microvid screens. Like most Hammers, he preferred to read paper and always had.

  “Kraa-damn it, Jackson, I said no interruptions.” Merrick’s face was dark with irritation; he had hoped to sign off the half-yearly review of the budget for the Hammer of Kraa Worlds that afternoon. It was a job he hated not least because every year it was the same old story: a hopelessly optimistic budget to start off with, approved by a compliant and craven People’s Assembly without so much as a single critical question, economic shortfalls almost from the first day of the new fiscal year in January, a crisis by March (a bad year) or May (a good year), and an emergency budget review in June before a whole new mess of cobbled-together emergency measures went back to the assembly for approval. And always against a background of simmering civil unrest.

  If the business of running the Hammer Worlds wasn’t so serious, it would be a farce.

  The only problem was that each year the farce got blacker as the Hammer Worlds stumbled farther and farther into an economic quagmire. No matter where he looked or how hard he tried, no matter how much he put the fear of Kraa into the bureaucrats, no matter how much he lashed Jeremiah Polk, councillor for the economy and finance, he could not see any way to change the situation. Unless the prohibitions on geneering and artificial intelligence (AI) were lifted, a proposition that would have him condemned to death by the Supreme Tribunal for the Preservation of the Faith if he ever spoke it aloud, the Hammer economy would stay stuck in second gear.

  No. Geneering was absolutely proscribed by the Hammer’s founding charter, and the ban on AI was the product of five bloody years of civil war. It didn’t matter that the chief councillor privately thought that there had to be some way to reconcile the two with the demands of doctrine. Neither ban would change-ever. Removing those two pillars of the faith was as likely as Bodger, his faithful if rather dim-witted dog, becoming chief councillor.

  And talking of contenders for his job, he wished he could say that Jeremiah Polk’s chances were as bad as Bodger’s, but increasingly the bloody man was looking like a real threat, he thought wearily. There had been a time when one of his favorite pastimes had been to encourage Polk to think that one day he would sit at the chief councillor’s desk. It had pleased him to see the pompous son of a bitch take his sarcastic goading seriously, although in retrospect maybe all he’d done was encourage the Kraa-damned bastard.

  Maybe you’re not as smart as you think you are, Merrick, he told himself.

  “Yes, Jackson. What do you want?”

  “I thought you might like to know that Brigadier General Digby has arrived, sir.” The confidential secretary’s voice was flat and without emotion.

  “Have him wait.” Merrick’s voice showed no trace of apology even though he belatedly remembered that he had specifically asked the long-suffering Jackson to tell him when Digby arrived.

  After taking care to mark his place in the massive budget document and making a fruitless attempt to bring some order to his desk, Jesse sat back in his chair and wearily rubbed his eyes. By Kraa, he was tired, and he shouldn’t have been. He was only fifty-three years old and in the prime of his life, yet he felt an enormous weight of responsibility on his shoulders, a burden that only death would allow him to put down. There had never been such a thing as a happily retired chief councillor, and given the blood-soaked nature of Hammer politics, there probably never would be. Well, he consoled himself, at least I won’t have to live as long as all those heathen bastards out there. They were welcome to survive for 150 years; he’d be more than content with his Kraa-allotted 100.

  Merrick keyed the intercom. “I’ll see Brigadier General Digby now.”

  Seconds later, the door opened and the squat, heavily muscled figure of Brigadier General Julius Digby entered, thinning gray hair cut to a short stubble. Like a small dark tank and as energetic as ever, Merrick thought sourly. Does the man never slow down? He quickly put the thought aside as unworthy. Kraa’s work demanded energy as well as skill, experience, and an unshakable belief in doctrine, he reminded himself, and Digby had them all. And Kraa knew how important the task Digby was charged with was. Not for the first time, Merrick asked himself whether he should have sought the approval of his fellow councillors for what he and Digby had planned. As always, he concluded that there was no way he could trust such a bunch of garrulous, lily-livered fools. No, the risks were great enough without adding the possibility of early disclosure. The Federated Worlds’ response if they discovered what he and Digby were up to was not something he enjoyed thinking about. No, keep it compartmentalized, get the task done, and no one will be the wiser. The rewards were what mattered, and they were so enormous both for him and for the hard-pressed peoples of the Hammer Worlds that the risks had to be entertained.

  There was no real choice. The future economic and social well-being of all the Hammer Worlds depended on it.

  Merrick waved Digby into a chair.

  “Brigadier General Digby, welcome back. How was Hell?” Merrick asked. It was his usual little joke and about as jolly as the chief councillor ever got. Not for nothing did his enemies, and they were legion, call him the Grim Reaper.

  “Hell, sir.” That was Digby’s habitual response. “By Kraa, that place is well named. A more damned collection of lost souls is hard to imagine. But Prison Governor Costigan has things as well under control as ever.”

  “He wasn’t curious?”

  “He was very curious but took great care not to ask any questions. I think he knows when to keep his mouth shut, and I suspect he also knows how quickly he would join his charges if he didn’t.”

  Digby’s face made it clear how much he enjoyed the thought of Prison Governor Costigan, a miserable and bitter man at the best of times and a man never easy to deal with, becoming one of the tens of thousands of unfortunates condemned to labor in the mass driver plants on the moons of Revelation-II, the second planet of the Revelation system.

  The planet was unofficially but widely referred to as what it was-Hell. A living Hell. Unfortunately for its inmates, Hell and its moons were an important part of Commitment’s economy in a system devoid of other sources of mass for fusion-powered mass driver engines. Without ultracheap mass for starship engines, no space economy could work and the Hammer would be doomed. And without AI-based management, geneering, self-replicating robotics, and all the other things held by the Path of Doctrine to be absolute abominations, prison labor was the only economical-if marginal-way to operate the mines spread across seventeen of Hell’s twenty-two moons. It also solved the problem of what to do with the countless unfortunates who fell afoul every year of Doctrinal Security, trapped like flies in the endless webs of half-truth, deceit, treachery, and revenge spun by DocSec’s enormous secret army of informers.

  Oh, yes, it was a good place to put those Hammers who strayed too far from the Path, Merrick thought. It was also a good place to consign any out-system travelers stupid enough to wander uninvited into Hammer-controlled space without a good excuse for being there, and there was no such thing as a good excuse. If they were lucky, Hammer prisoners would eventually return to civilized Kraa society. But off-worlders would labor in the mass driver plants until old age, overwork, or a brutal beating from a bored prison supervisor finished them off.

  “Digby, that was a very uncharitable thought. I’m sure Governor Costigan is-and I hope will remain-a valued member of the Faith.”

  The chief councillor’s faint, almost imperceptible smile, more a sneer than a smile, betrayed him. He watched as a tremor ran barely visible through Digby’s squat frame. Just as well, Merrick thought, pleased with himself. It never hurts to remind your subordinates they should fear you, and Digby clea
rly had gotten the message that he was no less expendable than Prison Governor Costigan.

  “It was uncharitable, sir,” Digby agreed. “But I’m sure Costigan will not let us down. He’ll treat the arrival of a shipment of off-worlders the same as any other shipment of transgressors. With ruthless efficiency, as usual and without question.”

  “Good, let’s hope so. We have enough to worry about as it is.” Merrick’s words were an order, not a wish, and Digby nodded his acceptance. “So, General. Your report?”

  “Well, sir, I have completed the review of the various options open to us, and I’m happy to report that it confirms Frontier as our best choice. It is a matter of public record that the Frontier Worlds Development Corporation successfully completed its planned fund-raising in August last year and placed contracts for an integrated phase one terraforming package with Planetary Dynamics Corporation two months later.”

  “And the name of their new planet?”

  “Ganesh, sir. The second planet of the Acadia System.”

  Merrick’s face soured, his mouth a bitter line across his creased and pallid face. This problem had frustrated him longer than he could remember. The Hammer had neither the resources nor the technology to terraform planets quickly. That meant there was no chance of settling the fourth habitable planet of the Hammer Worlds, Eternity, in any useful time scale, never mind H-5, H-6, H-7, and all the rest of the unnamed candidates for terraforming over which the Hammer had planetary development rights in perpetuity. In fact, even the simple act of choosing the name Eternity summed up the inability of the Hammer to get things done.

  The Supreme Council for the Preservation of Doctrine had taken months to approve the new name in the face of strenuous opposition from the Teacher of the Worlds John Calverson. An affront to doctrine, he had said over and over until Merrick had had great trouble not reaching down the council table and strangling the fucker. Calverson should spend more time caring for the souls of Kraa’s people-which was his job as the Hammer’s supreme spiritual head, after all-and less on endless nit-picking doctrinal arguments, Merrick thought sourly. And always egged on by Polk, which didn’t help.