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

  Polk said it for him. After a moment’s indecision, he was on his feet, his mounting fury visible to all. “I will not allow this! I insist you withdraw. I-”

  Merrick’s hand went up to silence Polk.

  “Well, Councillor Polk. Some might say that I should hold you personally responsible for the situation on Faith. Some might say that for months you resisted any and every attempt I made to have that corrupt pig Herris removed before the situation got completely out of hand. Some might say that perhaps it is you who should be asked to resign. But for the moment at least, I wouldn’t suggest such a thing. But if you wish me to open the matter up for debate, I will be happy to do so.”

  Polk stood silent for a second as Merrick watched him run the numbers in his head. True, if it came to a ballot, the pro-Polk faction might have the votes if Merrick tried to remove him; he was the only man on the Council able to restrain Merrick in any way. But that didn’t make seeing one of his own get the ax any easier to swallow.

  Slowly Polk sank back into his seat, the bitterness of defeat obvious to all. “No, Chief Councillor. That won’t be necessary.”

  Marek just stared at him, sudden terror stretching his face taut, his eyes wide and staring, a thin sheen of sweat across his face. He couldn’t speak. It was obvious to everyone that Polk had just decided to abandon him, and without Polk he was nothing but a dead man. He looked desperately to Polk’s men, but there was no support there.

  Merrick’s smile of satisfaction was cold and cruel. “Resign, Councillor. Resign now! Or I shall put the matter to secret ballot. Believe me when I say that I think it would be most unwise to do that. And remember, if you are tempted to count votes, you cannot vote on your own removal.”

  For a long minute, nothing was said. Nobody spoke in defense of Marek, and no one would. It was over, and they all knew it. Finally, Marek, taking a huge breath to steel himself for what would come next, got slowly to his feet, turning to look Merrick right in the eye.

  “Chief Councillor. I hereby tender my resignation. I have served Kraa to the best of my ability, and all I ask is that I be allowed to live out my days in peace.”

  No fucking chance, Merrick thought viciously. You know the rules, you corrupt self-serving bastard. Former councillors who died peacefully in their beds were a rarity, and Merrick had no intention of allowing Marek to be one of them. Former councillors knew too much. Former councillors were owed too many favors by too many people to be anything but trouble. And history showed that even if they intended to live out their days in peace, former councillors were always drawn back into the maelstrom of Hammer politics. They owed and were owed too much to stay out of things. But there was time to deal with Marek later.

  There was nothing more to be said, and as the silence stretched into awkwardness, Marek slipped from the room, a shrunken shadow of the man who had sat down at the Council table barely an hour earlier.

  Saturday, October 3, 2398, UD

  McNair State Prison, Commitment Planet

  They came for him in the early hours of the morning.

  Herris had not slept, ignoring the tray of slop pushed into his cell in favor of watching the sky through the tiny cell window. As the cell door banged open, he turned, standing unafraid and surprisingly calm, lit from behind by the sun as it burned its way into the bleak plascrete cell. The young DocSec lieutenant seemed nervous, the hand holding the death warrant shaking slightly as he began to read, his voice a near gabble under the stress of the moment.

  “To the governor, McNair State Prison, Commitment.

  “By my authority, you are hereby instructed that Kaspar Anjar Herris, 5300-718994-91F, now in your charge and having been found guilty by the investigating tribunal of conduct prejudicial to the Doctrine of the Hammer of Kraa and sentenced to death without leave to appeal, which sentence has been duly confirmed by the Supreme Tribunal for the Preservation of the Faith, is to be executed in the manner authorized by law at 05:3 °Commitment Standard Time on the third day of October 2398.

  “Given under my hand and seal this second day of October 2398 at McNair, Commitment. Carlos J. Ferenici, Deputy President, Supreme Tribunal for the Preservation of the Faith.”

  The lieutenant paused long enough to wet his lips before continuing. “Kaspar Anjar Herris, 5300-718994-91F. Do you have anything to say?”

  “No,” Herris said curtly. It had been good while it lasted, and he had always known the risks he was running. “For Kraa’s sake, get on with it.”

  As the DocSec officer backed out of the narrow cell, two DocSec troopers, covered by two more with stun guns, grabbed Herris, spun him around, and secured his wrists with plasticuffs. Then, blindfolded and gagged despite his protests, he was hustled out of the cell, down the corridor, and out into a small dirt-covered yard. As he was strapped to the single post set against the high wall at the back of the yard, the lieutenant, now briskly efficient in an effort to get the whole awful business done with, called the firing squad to order.

  Seconds later it was over except for two last pieces of ritual.

  First, the doctor, casual, disinterested, and as always visibly unhappy at being out of bed at such an early hour, checked that the firing squad had done its job. The lieutenant held his breath. He did not want to have to administer the coup de grace, and it was with heartfelt relief that he acknowledged the doctor’s curt nod of confirmation that the firing squad had done its job.

  As Herris’s body hung in its straps, shattered and still bleeding, the blood stark against orange prison coveralls as it dripped slowly to the dirt, the DocSec lieutenant stepped forward and in a clear firm voice called out the words that had followed countless victims of the Hammer of Kraa into darkness.

  “Kaspar Anjar Herris. So die all enemies of the peoples of the Hammer of Kraa.”

  Dismissing the firing squad and leaving the body of what once had been one of the most powerful men in the Hammer Worlds to the burial detail, he left the yard to get some breakfast, his appetite powerfully restored by successfully completing his first execution without a single fuckup.

  Monday, October 5, 2398, UD

  DLS-387, Pinchspace en Route to Hell (Revelation-II) System

  “I think to call that a debacle is being a bit unkind to debacles. And Michael, I hold you largely responsible.” Ribot’s face was as unsympathetic as his voice.

  Michael squirmed in his seat, miserable and embarrassed. “Sir” was all he could say.

  “Three points to make,” said Ribot. “First, there is no excuse for not liaising closely with Warrant Officer Ng’s teams. If they run into unexpected problems, it is you who has to adjust, not them. They are, after all, the whole reason why you are there. You support them and not the other way around. Now look.” Ribot brought up the holovid of Hell-14, the two tortuous routes to the poles marked in livid red.

  Ribot’s fingers stabbed at the display. “Route South first. Here, here, and here. Three times, same problem. You should have shifted resources from Route North to compensate for the extra work needed to get past these bottlenecks. OTTO’s maps are good, but they’re not that good, and there will always be parts of the route that are narrower than we expect, and that means finding a way around or cutting rock to get Warrant Officer Ng’s equipment through. Route North, same problem. So be prepared.”

  Michael nodded. Much as he hated being dressed down in public, everything Ribot had said so far had been fair enough.

  “Second problem is AI overdependence. It takes time to truly understand their limitations, but we don’t have much time, so learn fast. There is no substitute for the human brain, well, not yet, anyway, so don’t take Mother’s advice uncritically.” Ribot paused as Michael’s finger came up. “Yes?”

  “Understood, sir,” Michael said cautiously, “but part of the problem is that we haven’t given Mother enough learning time and Hell-14 is a unique problem. Such a problem in fact that the standard libraries of AI rules for covert operations haven’t been much use. I’ve sp
oken to Lieutenant Hosani and Warrant Officer Ng about the problem. What we are going to do is set up secondary sims running in parallel. Two of Warrant Officer Ng’s team will oversee those while the rest of us concentrate on the primary sim. That way, Mother will see multiple attempts at the problem. That way she’ll get more exposure to the issues we’ll face as well as the benefit of the real-life experience from Ng’s people at the same time. Hopefully, that means Mother will be better at supporting us when the real thing happens.”

  By the time he finished, Michael’s voice reflected a confidence he didn’t feel. Managing the support teams-sherpas, as Ng called them-had proved surprisingly difficult. Not only was wrestling the recalcitrant sleds very hard work physically, the problems came thick and fast, the timetable was unyielding, and the adjustments were never ending. Michael and his team had to get Ng’s teams to their targets on time, and that was that.

  “Neat, Michael. Neat. But is the experience Mother gets from sim on sim, as it were, going to be useful?” A shadow of doubt tinged Ribot’s voice.

  “We think so, sir.” Ng sounded confident. “Lieutenant Hosani has split Mother’s experiential base into two, one taking input from all three sims, the other from the primary sim only. We’ll analyze and compare the two as they grow, and if we see inconsistencies between them, we’ll trash the one using the secondaries. But I don’t think we’ll have to do that.”

  “Oh?” Ribot didn’t look convinced. “Why?”

  “Well, because the secondaries get the benefit of my people’s contribution. In the primary sim they are really nothing more than pack mules, there to move gear from A to B. But in the secondaries my people work at the command level. That way Mother’s experiential base not only grows faster, it gets multiple command inputs.”

  Ribot thought about it for a while before nodding in agreement. “Okay. Makes sense, so let’s see how it goes. Maria, the comparative analysis has to be good, and I’d like to understand the methodology as well as the results. Can you talk me through what you plan to do on that front?”

  “Sir.”

  “Okay. Where was I? Ah, yes. Lightly roasting Mr. Helfort.” Michael could manage only a half frown, half smile as laughter rippled around the room. They’d all been there, and Warrant Officer Ng knew that her turn was coming fast. Ribot paused for a moment. “Michael, for fuck’s sake, don’t take this too seriously. The reason we have sims is so that we can get most of the mistakes out of the way first. You know that.”

  Michael nodded. “I know that, sir. But there’s a lot at stake and a lot to think about.”

  “There is. So let’s get back to it. I’m happy on the AI front, so here’s my last point. Michael, I’ve told you before, and I’m sure I’ll tell you again. You get too involved, too close to the action. You must remember to stand back. If you don’t, nobody else will, and we risk the operation if that happens.”

  As Michael acknowledged the point with another nod of his head, Ribot turned to Ng.

  “Warrant Officer Ng, two points. It’s taking far too long, as I’m sure you know, but hopefully the next run-through will benefit from lessons learned so far. And second, some of your team are too casual, it seems to me, about concealment discipline. We all know that the Hammer’s sensor technology is crap compared to ours, but that’s no excuse for pushing the envelope.” Once again Ribot paused as the holovid bloomed. “Here and here, overaggressive cutting. Too much debris too quickly, and hot debris at that. And here, moving too fast too high. Asking for a radar paint and we can’t afford that.”

  Ng nodded. “Fair points, sir. We’ll do better next time.”

  “Okay. Now, any comments from the teams? Michael?”

  “No, all covered, sir.”

  “Warrant Officer Ng?”

  “Yes, sir. I’d like to see if we can beef up the sherpa teams supporting Route North. I know there’s not a lot of room and that more bodies do not necessarily give us a better result, but it’s well protected. If we can save some time, we may need it. I think it’s worth a look, and I’ll talk to the XO about where we get the bodies to do it if that’s all right.”

  “Fine by me.” Ribot looked across at Armitage, who nodded her agreement. “Any more? Okay, then we’re done. Twenty-four-hour stand-down and if all goes well, we’ll run the next sim after we’ve dropped into normalspace.”

  As the meeting broke up for a moment, Michael sat back with his eyes closed, his mood flattened not just by fatigue but by knowing how much had to be gotten right if the whole sorry Mumtaz affair was to be sorted out and his mother and Sam recovered safely. That they might not make it didn’t bear thinking about. He opened his eyes to see Warrant Officer Ng looking at him in the uncomfortably direct way that was one of her trademarks.

  “Oh! Didn’t realize you were still here.”

  “I am. And I’m just hoping that you aren’t taking this all too much to heart, sir. That would be a worry.” Ng’s face betrayed her concern.

  “You’d be right to, but no, I’m not. It’s just…Well, it’s just that I’ve never been part of anything that mattered so much before, and that takes a bit of getting used to, I suppose.” He rubbed his face as Ng’s eyes seemed to bore right into his soul. Not a woman to bullshit, he thought.

  Ng’s eyes softened. “That’s why sims aren’t the answer, sir. Never forget. They’ve got a fatal flaw. No risk. Nothing to lose. So keep it in perspective. Let me tell you something. I’ve always found that the real thing is easier somehow. Don’t really know why; never been able to work it out. But my theory is that some people perform better when it comes to the real thing precisely because it is risky. And I suspect that you are one of those people.”

  “I hope you’re right, I hope you’re right,” Michael said doubtfully.

  “Well, I think I am, and I’m not usually wrong. Anyway, that’s it for me. A shower, something to eat, and then a solid eight hours will do me. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Tuesday, October 6, 2398, UD

  DLS-387, Hell System (Revelation-II) Farspace

  With its usual stomach-churning lurch, 387 dropped out of pinchspace 19 million kilometers out from Hell system.

  In seconds, Mother had begun to build up the normalspace tactical picture of Hell system, the threat plot blossoming with hundreds of red Hammer intercepts.

  “This all seems very familiar.” Armitage grunted as the threat plot filled up with red symbols marking the mass of long-and short-range radars, lasers, and radio frequency and other emitters that infested the Hell system. One by one, Mother analyzed each intercept and downgraded the threat it presented, turning the symbols to orange as she did so. The tension in the combat information center visibly decreased as the threat plot finally changed to all orange.

  “Captain, sir. Command. Threat plot is orange, ready to conduct vector alignment and deploy pinchcomsats.” Hosani didn’t try to keep the relief out of her voice. Dropping out into normalspace was bad enough. Dropping into hostile normalspace was ten times worse.

  “Approved. Stand the ship down from general quarters and revert to defense stations. I’m going for a walk-around and then to my cabin.”

  “Sir.”

  Extravehicular activity conducted while the ship was doing 150,000 kilometers per hour was never popular, and this time it was even less so. Michael and his team were denied the protection of 387’s short-range defensive lasers, which normally were tasked with picking off any space debris that got too close to the drone team. The chance that Hammer sensors would pick up laser fire was simply too great. The risk was very real. The death of three of Bombard’s crew doing a routine drone launch five years earlier-the spacers had been drilled through one after the other by a single fragment of rock only millimeters across that had been let pass by a defective short-range laser-was all the reminder Michael’s team needed that what they were doing was a very risky business.

  It was from the heart that Michael heaved a sigh of relief as the surveillance drone team fin
ally maneuvered the last pinchcomsat out of its protective container and clear of 387.

  “Command, Alfa. Pinchcomsats deployed. Containers closed and secured. Returning,” Michael commed as he and the team scrambled to get back inside 387.

  “Alfa, command, roger.”

  Ten minutes later, the six pinchcomsats were boosted on their way to take up their positions in orbit 4 million kilometers out from the gray-black mass that was the planet Revelation-II. Their tiny low-power pinchcomms arrays had been locked successfully on to the pinchcomms carrier wave transmitted by a temporary tactical pinchcomms relaysat drifting in deepspace 2 light-years out from the Revelation system.

  Thursday, October 8, 2398, UD

  29:37 Local Time

  Eternity Base

  For a moment Kerri Helfort struggled to remember where she was.

  It didn’t take long; the hated breather mask cutting into her face saw to that. She rolled onto her back and checked the time. She had twenty minutes before midnight and reveille for Red Shift. She hated getting up in the dark and, along with everyone else, had been more than happy with Digby’s announcement that the much-disliked system of two back-to-back shifts seven days a week would end on Friday. Even the stupidest Hammer, and Kerri hadn’t taken long to work out that Digby was far from stupid, understood that you couldn’t work people nearly fifteen hours a day every day of the week forever.

  And so this Saturday would be a big day for the mostly unwilling inhabitants of the Hammer’s newest settled planet.

  Not only would it be their first free weekend, it also would mark the end of phase 1 of the terraforming project with all the primary infrastructure well on its way to completion. With the massive methane/carbon dioxide converters now in final testing, the next day would see the carbon sequestration and oxygen production plant commissioned, all of which was something of a relief to Kerri and everyone else dirtside. Nobody liked the idea of depending on the breather oxygen supplies being ferried down from the Mumtaz. Speaking of which, she saw that her oxygen supplies would get marginal during the shift, so she’d need to get replacement cylinders. And while she was at it, she thought, she might as well cycle the breather’s molecular filters.