The battle at the Moons of Hell

Team Twelve. Go with God.”

The final, agonizing wait was almost more than Michael could take, the pain in his left leg, now a mass of white-hot agony, nearly impossible to bear. But then it was almost over as the last crash bag was brought slowly out into the harsh glare of xenon floodlights.

“Lieutenant Jean-Paul Gerard Augustine Ribot, captain in command, Deepspace Light Scout Three Eight Seven. Go with God.”

As Ribot left the ship, his anonymous crash bag escorted by the two spacers, the bulky space-suited figure of Warrant Officer Morgan turned to make a stiff-armed but nonetheless regulation salute before silently following the heart-wrenchingly sad train of bright orange crash bags away into the darkness.

With a deep breath, Michael got himself under control. “Chief Petty Officer Harris!”

“Sir.”

“Dismiss Deepspace Light Scout Three Eight Seven.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

For a man well-known for his no-nonsense approach to life, Commodore Perec had been deeply moved, much more than he ever would have expected. As he’d watched in silence, he’d had to blink away the tears that had welled up in his eyes. The unadorned tragedy spelled out by the terrible procession of crash bags had hit him hard.

But now it was time once more to be Commodore Perec, commodore in command, Space Battle Station 1.

As Michael turned away from his crew, his left leg dragging noticeably, Perec took him by the arm, moving him out of the way of the engineering teams flooding onboard to start the formal damage assessment and take over what remained of 387 from its exhausted crew.

“Michael, I don’t think you are going to like what I am about to say. But at the end of the day, I’m a commodore and you’re not, so pay attention.”

Michael nodded. He was so tired, so emotionally drained, that all of a sudden nothing mattered anymore.

“Captain Baktiar, my principal medical officer, tells me that you are in very bad shape. The delays in getting your leg treated are causing real damage. He wants you in the base hospital for treatment, and he wants you there right now. Now, I can’t order you off your ship. You are the legally appointed captain in command and supreme under God until relieved by proper authority. However, you are doing irreparable harm to yourself, and I’m not prepared to allow you to do that. So even though I can’t order you, I strongly suggest that you do as Captain Baktiar suggests. And unless you don’t particularly want a long and successful career in the Fleet, I can assure you that listening to the requests of commodores is generally considered to be a very good thing.”

Michael had to smile at Perec’s forthright use of carrot and stick. “It’s all right sir, say no more. I’m convinced. To be honest, sir, I actually don’t think I can stand up much longer.”

“Good man. I’ll tell Captain Baktiar that you are on your way. I know your XO. Chief Harris is a good man. He’ll manage fine until the base teams have taken over, and I’ll make sure that 387 gets everything it needs.”

“Thank you, sir,” Michael said quietly with a half smile.

He stood there for a second. As he turned toward the station, his left leg finally gave way and he crumpled unceremoniously to the deck.

Monday, December 7, 2398, UD

Federated Worlds Space Fleet Barracks, Foundation, Terranova Planet

Michael’s stomach was a churning mass, and the fact that he hadn’t been able to eat anything for days didn’t help settle the worst attack of nerves he had ever experienced.

Michael had taken up position well clear of the milling mass of spacers crowded onto the huge parade ground that lay at the heart of Foundation’s sprawling Space Fleet barracks. He watched in silence as Chief Harris, aided and abetted by the ever-imperturbable Cosmo Reilly, quickly and efficiently brought order out of 387’s tiny part of the chaos. The morning sun of another brilliant Terranova day struck dazzling shards off medals and gold badges stark against dress black.

A firm hand on his shoulder brought him back to earth.

“For God’s sake, Michael, try not to look so nervous!”

Bill Chen’s cheerful face was the best thing Michael had seen all day. His dress uniform was immaculate, the deep crimson ribbon around his throat supporting the gold Valor in Combat starburst, the award bright with newness and brilliant against the black of his dress uniform. In comparison, the silver Hell’s Moons campaign medal hanging on a blue and yellow ribbon studded with a tiny gold command star that hung on his left breast looked washed out. On his left sleeve, a thin gold hash mark close to the cuff recorded 166’s unit citation for the Corona operation, and on his right was stitched his first combat command hash mark, also in gold.

Michael took a deep breath, his right hand moving without his knowing it first to check that his own Valor in Combat starburst was in place and then down to the two unit citations on his left arm. Truth was, he felt very overdressed, almost gaudy.

“Oh, hello, Bill. Can’t help it, sorry. Don’t much like crowds, and my damn leg still hurts.”

The captain of DLS-166 smiled indulgently. “Hang in there. It’ll all be over before you know it.”

Michael sighed deeply. “I know. I just wish 166 could be up front alongside us. God knows you earned it.”

“You know the rules, Michael. Order of ships in parade is determined by losses, so you’ll forgive me when I tell you I’m happy to be well back in the parade with most of my crew intact. We were lucky, damned lucky, and to this day I still don’t how I lost so few when that Hammer slug came inboard.”

“I wish we’d been lucky. None of this”-Michael waved an arm across the assembled spacers-“makes up for it.”

“No, it doesn’t and it never will,” Chen said, his voice heavy with sympathy. He couldn’t begin to understand what Michael had been through. “Michael, I’d better go. We’re behind the Al-Jahiz and the Damishqui, and the funeral AI’s getting fractious. I’ll catch up with you afterward.”

“Will do, Bill,” Michael said as Reilly and Chief Harris, finally satisfied that they had the surviving crew members of 387 where they needed to be, made their way over.

In deference to the occasion, Harris’s salute was stiff and formal, the silver-gray T’changa badge on his left shoulder bright in the morning sun, the ribbon holding his gold Valor in Combat starburst glowing richly in the yellow light. “Deepspace Light Scout Three Eight Seven present and accounted for, sir.”

Michael’s salute was equally formal. “Thank you, chief. And thanks for sticking with us.”

Harris nodded. “No problem, sir. No problem at all. It’s been an honor, and I think it’s what the Doc would have wanted.”

Michael looked across at Reilly. “Cosmo, you okay?”

“Well enough, skipper. Though it’s damned hard. I never thought I’d miss them as much as I do.”

Michael could only nod. There was a short awkward pause.

“I’m not looking forward to this, either,” Michael said, bobbing his head at the mass of Federated Worlds spacers neatly formed up behind the 387s.

Reilly and Chief Harris both smiled.

“As if we couldn’t tell,” Reilly said. “We’ll be right behind you, and the AI will make sure it all goes off all right. Don’t worry.”

Michael nodded. Easy to say, but in a few minutes he’d be the one out in front of hundreds of thousands of Worlders. And thanks to World News Network’s epic four-hour holovid of the entire Corona operation screened in prime time and reportedly watched by nearly every FedWorlder able to stand, every one of them would know who