The Battle of the Hammer Worlds

The door closed, and Michael busied himself digging out his gym gear. The two hours of gym time he was given each day was the one chance he got to burn off the unholy mix of ennui, anger, frustration, and fear that churned through his body. He meant to make the most of them. No sooner was he ready than there was a knock on his cabin door.

It was Corporal Yazdi. “Afternoon, sir. Ready to go?”

“Hi, Corporal. Yup, ready.”

Small and sinewy, she did not look capable of taking on a granny in a wheelchair. Michael knew better, much better. Corporal Yazdi was not a woman to be underestimated. Michael would willingly bet a year’s pay that Yazdi was every bit as dangerous as Murphy, her lethally fast reflexes and precision more than making up for what she lacked in height and mass. He liked the marines who had been posted to make sure he did not try to blow up the Ishaq, and Yazdi and Murphy in particular. To while away the endless hours stuck in his cabin, he had talked at length to both of them, the two marines a mine of information on the Marine Corps. Contrary to the popular view held by most spacers, Michael included, that most marines were mindless grunts, Yazdi and Murphy were as sharp as anyone with whom Michael had served.

Yazdi looked cheerful. Michael knew she would have arranged for a couple of marines to back her up so that she could get some time on the mats with him doing basic drills. Despite his three years at Space Fleet College, Yazdi had not been impressed with his unarmed combat skills. In her professional opinion, they were barely up to the job of fending off a bad-tempered drunk on a Saturday night, a situation Yazdi thought was criminally irresponsible and one she had made it her business to do something about.

Monday, August 30, 2399, UD

FWSS Ishaq, Paderborn Reef

“Now, get out! Get out, Goddamn it!”

“Sir!”

The door to Captain Constanza’s day cabin hissed shut behind Commander Morrissen. For a moment he could not move. He felt sick. He wiped a forehead greasy with sweat. What a mess. Ishaq was a ship in all sorts of trouble. And what was he doing? Trying to get his captain to see that no matter how much she ranted, how much she raved, nothing would change the fact that the charges of conspiracy to mutiny against Fellsworth and Helfort would not stand up. Never, ever. Why could she not see that?

If that wasn’t bad enough, now she was threatening to have him arrested as well. Christ, he thought as he set off back to his office, what a bloody joke. He was the executive officer of a FedWorld heavy cruiser, for God’s sake, and he couldn’t even talk to his captain without being accused of treachery. So much for the fearless provision of advice so heavily stressed in his training. One thing was for sure: His career was over, so none of it mattered. Constanza could rant and rave all she liked; he was finished. Not that he cared anymore; any organization that tolerated people like Constanza was not an organization he wanted to work for. The bitch would have his resignation on her desk as soon as he could find the time to write it.

But that would have to wait. Somehow-he had no idea how-he was going to have to find a way to undo some of the damage Constanza had done. He owed Fellsworth and Helfort that much. And, as much as he hated the idea, that meant another confrontation with Constanza.

“I’m warning you, Commander. One step out of line and I’m charging you.”

“I understand, sir.”

“All right, then. Continue.”

“Right, sir. Clearly, Lieutenant Armstrong no longer has your confidence.”

“That’s an understatement,” Constanza muttered.

“So I think the best thing to do would be to pinchcomm a summary of the brief of evidence to the Fleet provost marshal. If Fleet agrees with you, then we can off-load the two officers at our next driver mass replenishment for transfer back to Terranova. Fleet can hold them until a court-martial can be convened. It would be good to put the problem behind us, to allow Ishaq to move on.”

Morrissen held his breath as Constanza, eyes narrowed, considered his suggestion. If she agreed, Fleet would see exactly what was going on on board poor old Ishaq. That meant there was a chance-a slim chance-that they would do something about Ishaq’s crisis of command.

It took a while, but eventually, much to Morrissen’s relief, Constanza nodded her agreement.

“Right, Commander,” she said. “For once, you’ve done the right thing. It’s a good suggestion. When can you get the draft pinchcomm to me?”

“Give me an hour, sir, if that’s okay.”

“Make it so, Commander.”

“Thank you, sir.” Morrissen started toward the door but stopped. “Oh, sir. One thing. Since we’re in effect passing this matter on to Fleet, I would like to put Fellsworth and Helfort under open arrest. We can manage, of course, but close arrest is a serious drain on-”

Constanza’s hand went up. “Say no more, Commander. I know where you’re going, and I agree,” she said expansively. “Open arrest it is. They won’t be with us for long.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll take it from here.”

“You do that. Get that report to me. Now go; I’ve got work to do.”

“Thank you, sir,” Morrissen said to the top of Constanza’s head.

You’re a damn fool, Captain Constanza, if you think for one second that Fleet’s going to back you up on this one, Morrissen thought as he left. The beauty of it all was that the facts-or, more accurately, the lack of facts-would speak for themselves. Fleet would throw the whole pathetic business out the window, of that he was absolutely sure. He would bet what little was left of his career on it.

Tuesday, August 31, 2399, UD

FWSS Ishaq, Paderborn Reef

Ishaq’s executive officer coughed. “Thank you all for coming.” He looked acutely uncomfortable.

“Our pleasure, sir,” Lieutenant Commander Fellsworth replied sardonically. Michael grinned. He liked the exec. Despite everything, Commander Morrissen was a decent guy. Sitting beside him was Commander Pasquale, Fellsworth’s boss. Pasquale looked angry. She glared at Michael; dutifully, he wiped the smile off his face.

Michael knew that Morrissen had reason to look uncomfortable. Morrissen had not covered himself in glory over his handling of what was now called the COMEX affair. Well, that was what the polite members of Ishaq’s crew called it. The impolite preferred “COMEX screwup,” the rude liked “COMEX fiasco,” and the insubordinate were going with “COMEX clusterfuck.” That was Morrissen’s choice; apparently he had been overheard saying it in an unguarded moment. Michael had to agree. It was probably the only label that even came close.

“Forgive me, Jack, but for God’s sake get on with it.” Commander Pasquale’s impatience was obvious. She had a busy department to run, and none of this made that job any easier.

“Yes, please do, sir,” Fellsworth said.

“Right,” Morrissen muttered. “Well, I can tell you that the charge of conspiracy to mutiny will be withdrawn, so that’s good news.”

“Thank you, sir. No surprises there considering it was a complete load of nonsense in the first place,” Fellsworth exclaimed angrily.

Morrissen looked embarrassed. “Er, yes. Quite so.”

“When, sir?” Fellsworth’s tone was angry.