The battle at the Moons of Hell

hope, Governor, that nobody’s been tempted to bug the room.”

Costigan’s face whitened in shock, and Digby realized that he had done just that.

Digby paused for a moment, eyes hard and merciless, before sitting back down in his chair, his thin tight smile completely devoid of good humor.

“Well, Governor. I think you might like to go and make a few calls while I drink my coffee. I think the conference room ought to be ready in, say, ten minutes?”

Costigan could only nod in silent acknowledgment as he got to his feet. If he was at all grateful for the reprieve Digby had just given him, it didn’t show.

Digby suppressed a sigh as Costigan hurried out of the office. Nothing would have given him more pleasure than to hand the bloody man over to DocSec, but sadly, he needed Costigan and this was not the time to move against him. But if he survived, he would make sure that Costigan’s day would come.

Digby sat back in his chair at the front of the empty conference room.

He flipped his microvid screen up and gave his eyes a long rub. It had been a very long day, and he had the aching muscles to prove it, but finally all was ready for Mumtaz’s arrival the next day. The security team had been dispatched to the Myosan ready for the next day’s final briefings. Digby had never seen men look so relieved. The prospect of arming 120 ex-convicts had caused him and Myosan’s commander a brief moment of anxiety, but it had passed just as quickly. The specification called for men with good military records imprisoned for minor infringements of doctrine with young families that they desperately wanted to see again. But the winning card was the offer of migration with their families and a small cash reward to anywhere in humanspace that was willing to take them when it was all over.

No, these men all had too much to lose, and Digby was absolutely confident that he had their trust and loyalty even if he, as an agent of the government that had locked them up in the first place, without any justification, had no right to expect either.

The only risky thing he had to accomplish was the transfer of Comonec and his team off the ship and safely into the hands of Costigan and his thugs. But they knew that the plan called for them to hand over the ship to a relief crew, after which they were supposed to get their second payment and disappear. Well, they’d disappear, all right, but, sadly for them, not one cent richer than when they started.

Digby collected his papers, shut down his digital assistant, unclipped his microvid screen, and called the governor. With some small satisfaction, Digby realized that he had gotten Costigan out of bed.

“Governor. Sorry to disturb you,” he said without a trace of regret. “I’m done. Please have my shuttle ready. And no mistakes tomorrow. Anything else you need to tell me? No? All right, then, I’m off. Good night.”

Twenty-five minutes later and no more than a blur against the stars, Bonnie had crossed the orbit of Revelation-II. Seconds later she slipped unobserved past Hell Central at 15,000 kilometers, missing an unsuspecting shuttle from Hell-9 on final approach by less than 5 kilometers.

The little surveillance drone was one of the triumphs of Federated Worlds engineering. Packed with the best electromagnetic radiation and gravitronics microsensor systems the Worlds’ technology could produce, the drone vacuumed data out of Hammer nearspace at a phenomenal rate and, taking extreme care that no Hammer warships or sensors were in the line of sight, fired the data over the tightbeam laser a million kilometers back to 387, where an increasingly stressed command team looked anxiously for confirmation that Mumtaz was in-system.

But Mumtaz was nowhere to be seen.

Nine minutes later, Bonnie skimmed above the desolate and blasted surface of Hell-11. Then, with Revelation-II’s gravity pulling its vector inward, Bonnie, nose on to minimize its radar cross section, curved in to pass Hell’s Flotilla base and its thick cluster of Hammer warships, the stealth coat absorbing the energy thrown at it by the Hammer’s phased-array radar.

For a brief moment a bored sensor operator thought he might have seen a faint ghostly return, but it didn’t last, and in the interests of a quiet watch he didn’t bother to do anything about it.

At 00:28, Bonnie passed Hell-13 and was on her way out of Revelation-II nearspace.

Wherever the Mumtaz was, it wasn’t in orbit around Revelation-II or any of its moons.

Tuesday, September 15, 2398, UD

Hell Planet (Revelation-II) Nearspace

Ribot had closed the ship up to general quarters when Hell Central was just over 500,000 kilometers away.

Petty Officer Strezlecki, along with Helfort and the rest of the surveillance drone team, was suited up. But with the ship’s artificial gravity shut down to reduce the effectiveness of Hammer grav arrays, the wait was not as unbearable as usual.

What was certain was that after days of anxiety, the strain of not knowing was slowly tearing Helfort apart, to the point where Strezlecki was beginning to get concerned about his mental state. Smart man, the skipper, she thought. He’d known this would happen, had been worried enough to ask her to keep a very close eye on Michael. Squinting sideways past the edge of her helmet, she watched as Michael stood to one side, a light sheen of sweat clearly visible through his open visor underneath the bright orange oxygen mask, eyes unfocused and breathing heavy. She moved a little closer to be by his side.

“Surveillance, command.”

Patching her neuronics in, she watched Michael carefully as he took the captain’s comm.

“Surveillance.”

“Petty Officer Strezlecki? You in on this?” Ribot asked.

“Yes, sir,” Strezlecki said, puzzled. Of course she was. As a matter of routine she’d sit in on all comms to and from surveillance. What was the skipper going on about?

“Ah, good. You need to hear this, too, Michael. Even though her registration has been painted out, and she’s squawking on Esmereldan ID, Mother has been able to confirm that the UV drop intercept we made earlier is in fact the Mumtaz. She’s not berthed on Hell’s planetary transfer station; she’s on vector for Hell-13, where there’s a lot of activity-drone remassers, transfer shuttles, and so on. So it seems pretty clear that Fleet’s right: She looks to be leaving before very much longer. Not much else to say, Michael, except how sorry I am. But the good news is that Mumtaz looks fine, no damage anywhere that we can see, and I’m sure your family is safe.” Ribot’s voice dried up as he ran out of things to say, and for a moment there was silence.

“Thanks for that, sir,” Michael said in a half whisper.

Now Strezlecki understood why Ribot wanted her in on the comm, and she watched as Helfort began to draw himself up straight for the first time in days, his hunched and defeated posture beginning to fade.

But Michael’s avatar was still gray-faced. “Michael, are you there? Are you okay?” Ribot sounded concerned. As any good skipper would, Strezlecki thought.

“Oh, sorry, sir. Yes, I’ll be fine. Actually, it’s a bit of a relief now that we at least know what’s going on. And sir, I’m from a Fleet family, and I’m sure that the Fleet will get them all back.”

Finally Michael’s voice had some of its old strength, some emotion in it, even if his face still didn’t, Strezlecki realized.

Ribot couldn’t quite conceal the relief in his voice. “Michael, nothing in life is certain except that the Hammers are scum. But I think we can be pretty sure that the Worlds won’t take this lying down. There are still plenty of people who haven’t forgotten what happened the last time around, so I think it’s just a matter of time. That was certainly the impression I got from Fleet operations when I spoke to them, so have faith. I’ve got no doubts. We will get them back.”

“I can’t see the Worlds leaving what, a thousand or so people, in the Hammers’ hands, sir. So I’m sure you’re right.” Michael’s voice grew in strength and determination with every word, his face beginning to lose its gray