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

  He did have his running gear on. Even brigadier generals of marines were supposed to stay fit, after all.

  Digby comforted himself with the knowledge that for all its fearsome reputation, Doctrinal Security was as slack as most security organizations without an immediate and obvious threat to deal with seemed to be. Its supposedly random patrols were far from random, and Digby would have sworn before Kraa that at least half of them wouldn’t have seen an elephant standing at the side of the road unless it was painted bright pink and floodlit with a strobe light nailed to its head. He’d been a marine for far too long not to recognize the signs of low morale, poor discipline, and weak leadership at a glance. He’d even had to dodge the shattered remains of a beer bottle thrown from a jeep as it sped past.

  Then, all of a sudden, there was activity at the compound gate. A light came on to reveal a man talking to the gate guards, but it was too far away to tell if he was Kumar. Please, let it be him and nobody else, Digby pleaded, his heart thudding. Please let it be Kumar and let him be alone. Digby waited in impatient agony. They must know him well, he thought, as the faint sounds of laughter came down the avenue. They seemed very chummy; maybe it was not Kumar.

  Finally, the man was off and running. Kumar. Please Kraa, let it be Kumar. Nerves jangling, Digby turned and moved down the road to a position 50 meters short of the first cross-street, turning every so often to track the man coming toward him.

  And Kumar it was, and thank Kraa, he was alone.

  Almost before Digby knew it, Kumar was on him.

  “Captain Kumar, it’s Julius Digby,” he hissed. “Don’t slow down. Keep running and turn right at the cross-street and stay close to the trees. I must talk to you.”

  And with that, Digby was off through the shadows, hoping like hell that Kumar wouldn’t do what common sense would tell him to do: turn around and go straight home.

  Moments later, Kumar rounded the corner, jogging steadily up the Avenue of Martyrs toward the sea some 3 kilometers in front of him, hugging the curb, running in and out of the shadows. Suddenly he stopped, bending down as though to adjust an overly tight shoe.

  “You’ve got twenty seconds, Digby, and then I’m gone.” Kumar’s voice was harsh. No Sylvanian would ever trust a Hammer, and for all Kumar knew, this could be entrapment.

  “Ashok, you must trust me. I have a message capsule here for you. It will open only when you say the passphrase ‘concurrent,’ that’s ‘concurrent.’ Please repeat.”

  “Concurrent,” Kumar replied shortly. “Five seconds.”

  “Okay. Meet me 100 meters down the road and I’ll hand the capsule over. Then I’m gone. You’ll know what to do when you read it. If you’re stopped, for Kraa’s sake, wipe it or I’m a dead man.”

  The Sylvanian ambassador’s normally deep ebony face was gray with anger. He had lost family and friends when Jesmond had been nuked by the Hammer and had little reason to put any faith in them or their works. And now this.

  “Ashok, we have to give the Feds time to stop this insanity.”

  “I wish we could.” Kumar’s frustration was obvious. “Our next starship courier is, uh, yes, September fifth. The Dnieper. If we can get her turned around quickly, there’s a chance we can pinchcomm the Feds on Terranova in time to stop the hijacking, but it’ll be very tight. Needless to say, asking the Hammer to let us use their pinchcomms system is not an option. I’ve checked the outbound starships to Scobie’s World. All full, thanks to the Establishment Day holidays, with the waiting lists closed as usual. And of course, thanks to Mr. Murphy, the Feds’ next courier doesn’t arrive until the seventh. So it’s got to be the Dnieper. Unless, that is, we confront the Hammer now and let them know that we know what they are up to.”

  Ambassador Kwashomo’s hands went up. “We don’t even know if this is just an elaborate hoax. And if we do confront them, then what? We have no proof, and everyone involved will be dead by the end of the day. And even if they did believe us, Merrick would go in the usual Hammer bloodbath, to be replaced by God knows which councillor. Probably that devious man Polk. And then the usual Hammer bullshit: We didn’t know, it wasn’t our fault, blame Merrick, it was his fault, we are so sorry.” The ambassador stopped, conscious that he had come close to losing control. “So what do we do?”

  Kumar was emphatic. “I think that we have to sit on it at this end. Toppling Merrick, much as we all despise the man, on the basis of a single unsubstantiated report is not our decision to make. I think that it is ultimately up to the Feds to decide what they want to do. The Mumtaz is their ship, after all.”

  “I agree.” Kwashomo was equally emphatic. “We cannot stop the project from going ahead, so let’s not add any new variables by forcing any changes at this end. Merrick is a madman, but better the madman we know than somebody new. A new madman, dear God! Imagine Polk-the man is such a xenophobe, even for a Hammer. Just what we don’t need. The Dnieper it is.”

  “I’ll get on it.”

  Monday, August 31, 2398, UD

  DLS-387, Berthed on Space Battle Station 20, in Orbit around Anjaxx

  Michael fidgeted as he waited for his captain to arrive.

  Just his luck, he thought, for his first formal task onboard 387 to be acting as accused’s friend for the black sheep of his division, one Spacer Angelina Athenascu. Not that Athenascu was a bad spacer, far from it. Her record showed her to be a hardworking, experienced, and competent member of Michael’s surveillance drone team, someone to be relied on in a tough situation. But off duty was a different matter, and once again a space battle station’s long-suffering provost marshal had delivered Athenascu, left eye a brilliant swollen patch of purple and red, apparently after she’d taken exception to the way a group of marines had talked about Space Fleet in general and light scouts in particular. Unfortunately for Athenascu, her ability to take on the marines had been degraded severely by a very long session in the Fleet club, and she hadn’t been smart enough to slap on a detox patch before hurling herself off a table straight into the swinging right fist of the largest marine present.

  By the time the patrol had arrived, the marines were long gone, having left Athenascu flat on her back complaining bitterly about marines who wouldn’t stand and fight.

  387’s legal AI had processed all the evidence and, helped by Athenascu’s plea of guilty, had duly returned a firm proof of guilt finding. It only remained for Ribot to accept the AI’s findings-usually but not always a formality-and pass sentence. Michael’s job was to persuade Ribot, against all the evidence, that Athenascu did in fact not make a habit of taking strong exception to marines, that this was a one-time occurrence, and that he should pass only a token sentence, preferably a caution. Michael didn’t fancy his chances. With 387 about to deploy, the last thing Ribot would have wanted to spend his time on was yet another of Athenascu’s indiscretions. And it was on record that Ribot had warned her in no uncertain terms the last time around that he didn’t want to see her at his table again.

  Michael’s pessimism was interrupted by the coxswain’s stentorian voice as Ribot left his cabin to stand behind the plasfiber lectern that had been set up in the passageway. “Captain’s Defaulters! Atten…shun.”

  Returning Chief Petty Officer Kathy Kazumi’s snappily precise salute, Ribot made his tone sternly formal. “Thank you, Coxswain.”

  “Good morning, sir. One defaulter, sir.”

  “Well, that’s something, I suppose. Okay, let’s get on with it.”

  “Sir. Spacer A. K. Athenascu FR4456778 charged with conduct prejudicial to good order and Fleet discipline in that she did commit common assault on the person of Marine G. J. Waddell MR8919034 in the Fleet club of Space Battle Station 20 at 02:40 Universal Time, Monday 31 August 2398 Universal Date.”

  Ribot sighed deeply. Michael certainly understood why. Legal protocol prevented Ribot from knowing in advance any more than the fact that he had defaulters to deal with. Who they were, what they had been accused of, how they’d pleaded, and wha
t the legal AI thought all would come as a surprise and, in this case, a doubly unwelcome surprise, Michael had no doubt.

  “Bring in the accused.”

  “Sir. Spacer Athenascu!” Kazumi’s voice would have cut steel, and Michael was glad that he wasn’t the one having to front Ribot.

  “Sir.” Athenascu appeared smartly from wherever she had been lurking, coming to a halt in front of Ribot with parade-ground precision, hands tightly tucked into her sides, eyes firmly locked on Ribot’s impassive face.

  As the coxswain went through the time-honored rituals of captain’s table, Michael, now standing slightly behind and to the right of the hapless Athenascu, had little to do but listen as Athenascu confirmed her plea of guilty before the case for the prosecution was presented. Petty Officer Kazumi’s experience showed as she simply and concisely summarized the evidence, and in only a matter of minutes the job was done, the legal AI formally confirming that it would be safe for Ribot to accept Athenascu’s plea.

  For a while, Ribot stood there in silence. He had the option of handing the case over for further consideration, but Michael suspected that Ribot, like most captains, hated having disciplinary loose ends hanging around. Thus, it was no surprise when Ribot announced to an impassive Athenascu that the charge was proved.

  Two minutes later, the theater of captain’s table was over, with Athenascu beating a hasty retreat from a clearly very unhappy captain. Michael’s request that Athenascu’s good professional record be taken into account had been treated with duly grave consideration by Ribot, but Michael still winced as Ribot smacked Athenascu with a 500-FedMark fine and stoppage of fourteen days of leave effective on completion of their current mission. As Michael turned away to follow Athenascu, Ribot caught his eye and waved him back.

  “Sir?”

  “Michael. That’s the last time I want to see Athenascu at my table. If I see her on a clear-cut case like this one again, I’ll have no choice but to recommend dishonorable discharge. While I hate to lose a good spacer, she’s had all the chances she’s going to get. Space Fleet likes aggression in its spacers but only when it’s accompanied by self-control. Make that clear to her and make sure she understands that she has no more chances. None.”

  “Sir.”

  As Ribot walked away, radiating extreme unhappiness with every step, Michael sighed deeply. This was not the start he’d been hoping for. Oh, well, he mused, things can only get better. In any case, he couldn’t spend any more time worrying about Athenascu. The final ops conference to review 387’s upcoming mission was due to start in less than an hour’s time, and Michael intended to be fully prepared for it.

  With the ops conference over and only a hurried break for lunch, the rest of the day involved hard physical work for Michael and his surveillance drone team, which also doubled as 387’s cargo handlers.

  Of course, Michael thought as he, Athenascu, and Leong wrestled a recalcitrant cargo container into position outboard of the mass driver storage bins on 3 Deck, the cargo always arrives last, and late, and nobody can ever explain why. Despite the mission having been scheduled for more than three months, the Defense Gravity Project had managed to get the massive gravitronics arrays up to SBS-20 only late that morning, leaving Michael and his team precious little time to get them secured by the XO’s deadline of 18:00 that evening and get the ship patrol-ready.

  Finally the massive container, painted a light blue to show that it was vented to space and required no external services, was secured and the locking pins were rammed home and checked visually. Mother signaled a secure lock and detached the cargobots, and Leong and Athenascu maneuvered up and out of the brightly lit cargo bay to await the next container.

  Michael did the same thing and then paused for a moment.

  Above him was the enormous spherical gray-black bulk of SBS-20, to which 387 was securely berthed, its 400-meter diameter dwarfing 387, her stealthed hull a formless, bottomless, impenetrable black pit punctuated only by the brilliantly lit silvered inner surfaces of the open cargo hatches. Thousands of kilometers below him swam the glorious swirling blues and whites of Anjaxx itself. Beyond and above the planet hung its two moons, both silvery gray in the harsh light coming from Prime, Anjaxx’s orange-red main sequence dwarf star only 81 million kilometers away. Providing the background to it all were the billions of diamond-sharp pinpoints of light that made up the rest of the galaxy. It was a sight Michael had never gotten used to and, if his parents were any guide, never would.

  “Incoming, sir.” Leong’s comm interrupted his little reverie, and Michael turned to see the next container, another big one but this time a luridly bright green to show that it was pressure-and temperature-controlled. It swam slowly into view around the sharp curve of the battle station’s outer hull, two Day-Glo orange cargobots attached one to each end, their mass driver thrusters firing brief silver-gold plumes of incandescent matter as they moved the container in a slow and carefully coordinated arc around SBS-20’s hull.

  Moving away from SBS-20, Michael made sure that he and his fellow cargo handlers were clear of the container’s approach vector and would not be caught between 387 and the container as it closed; cargobots were very good, but nothing made by humans was infallible. The containers had a lot of mass and, once out of control, tended to stay that way until they either hit something or had been wrestled back under control. Even moving at less than a meter per second, the containers were lethal weapons. And the cargobots’ mass driver plumes also had to be watched. The safety sims had some gruesome holovid of spacers who hadn’t paid attention, and Michael had no intention of allowing any repeats.

  As the container approached, the cargobots began to brake the container. Must be heavy, Michael thought, judging by the prolonged effort it took to bring the huge box to a dead stop 5 meters off the open cargo hatch. “Leong, take the Anjaxx side. Athenascu, the planet side. I’ll go behind.”

  Leong and Athenascu, two bright strobe-marked orange shapes against the black nothingness of 387, spun on the spot, stopped dead for a second, and then accelerated into position, turning at the last second to drop into place, perfectly set. Show-offs, Michael thought enviously as he maneuvered himself much more carefully and, he would have been the first to admit, clumsily into position. It would be a long time before he was as good as the worst spacer on 387’s surveillance drone team, but then, they had had hundreds, in some cases thousands, of hours of practice. Michael commed the cargobots, confirmed that they had the correct cargo slot, checked that the team was clear, and then authorized the final approach. As always, despite the impressive finesse with which the cargobots handled the container, the last couple of centimeters required the combined efforts of all three of them to get the damn thing into position so that the locking pins could slide home.

  Finally, the container was where it needed to be. Mother signaled a secure lock and detached the cargobots as Leong and Athenascu connected the thick armored power and ventilation umbilicals. Two minutes later, Mother was happy that this was one container that would survive the trip, and Michael and the team turned to await the next; this one, according to Mother, would be the last to go into the starboard 3 Deck cargo space.

  It had been a long hard day by the time the last container had been pinned home and after an exhaustive gear check to make sure nothing had been left behind-captains got pretty upset if they had to stop acceleration to recover lost equipment rattling around loose in the cargo bays-and Michael could dismiss the team. He and Petty Officer Strezlecki did a last fly-past along the containers.

  “Looks fine to me,” Michael said as he checked out the last of the containers on the port side.

  “Me, too, sir,” Strezlecki confirmed. “All personnel clear and accounted for. All equipment accounted for. Button her up?”

  “Yeah, go ahead.”

  Michael and Strezlecki pushed back as Mother turned off the cargo bay lights and one by one closed the massively thick armored access doors until all that was left was an
absolute and total nothing. Michael knew 387 was there because logic told him it had not moved and he could see her shape as a black cutout against the gray-black hull of SBS-20. But all of a sudden, the sense of form, solidity, and mass, of firm reality that the open cargo doors had provided, was gone. All Michael could see was void, a pit into which he felt for one awful moment he was going to tumble.

  Strezlecki also felt it. “That’s something, isn’t it? Never get used to it even after all these years.” Her voice brought Michael back to his senses.

  “Christ, thanks for that cheerful thought. I’d rather hoped I would get used to it.”

  “Never, sir, trust me,” Strezlecki said confidently as they turned to make a final inspection of the hull to confirm that every cargo hatch had sealed as flush as Mother said it had, guided only by the ship schematics brought up on their neuronics. Finally, the job was done and they made their way back to the personnel access lock, the ship passing below them unseeable and unseen.

  “Any thing else we-I-need to think about?” Michael didn’t think there was, but it didn’t hurt to ask.

  “No, sir, that’s it for today. I’m headed for the shower and then to the Fleet senior spacers club-got a birthday bash to attend.” Strezlecki’s voice made it clear that with a patrol scheduled to last almost two months less than twenty-four hours away, she intended to get in a final round of serious partying before they dropped.

  “I wish I had half your luck. Quiet evening for me and then a decent night’s sleep would be good.” In the frantic scramble to get everything done in time, Michael had managed only about three hours of sleep since he had stepped-sorry, stumbled and fell-aboard 387.

  According to Michael’s neuronics, they were only two meters from their destination, and in confirmation Mother opened the outer hatch of the forward personnel access lock. The brilliant white light from inside the ship seemed to come from nowhere.