The Battle of the Hammer Worlds

Michael sighed. This was getting tedious. His body was seriously damaged, his head felt like it had been hit with a shovel, he was exhausted, he felt sick inside at the thought of how many of Ishaq’s spacers must have been lost, and all this Hammer pig wanted was stuff he had already told them. Didn’t they talk to each other?

“Helfort, Michael Wallace. Junior Lieutenant, Federated Worlds Space Fleet, serial number FC0216885.”

“What ship?”

Michael shook his head. “Can’t answer that.”

Stork nodded and sat back. He looked at Michael for a long, long time. He nodded again before leaning forward to write out Michael’s details in longhand on the paper pad. He then ripped the top sheet off. He put it carefully to one side and wrote something else. Michael struggled to read it, but he could not see well enough. It was too far away, and his eyes refused to focus. Stork got up and went to the door. There was a murmur of conversation, and then Stork was back, but without the paper. He’s sent a message to someone, Michael said to himself; that’s what he’s done.

Stork stood over him. He shook his head slowly.

“Helfort, eh? I remember you. You had some part to play in what you Fed pigs call the Battle of Hell’s Moons. I remember you from the holovid news. Bit of a fucking hero, I seem to recall. Well, that won’t help you now, you sad sack of Fed shit. Not one little bit.” With another shake of the head, Stork was gone, leaving Michael alone in the bleak plasteel compartment.

Michael’s heart sank. If they thought for a moment he was important, they would watch him like a hawk. Goddamn it, he thought. Any chance he might have of escaping had gone up in smoke. He had a terrible feeling that the Hammers were going to be more than a bit interested in him, but what use could he be? He had been a small cog in a huge machine. More than that, the Hammers were taking great care to conceal who they were. That meant they did not want anyone to know that they had been behind the attack on Ishaq. That meant. . An icy-cold hand took Michael’s heart and squeezed it hard. Oh, God, he thought. That means we are dead. That is why they were trying to hard-kill the lifepods. No survivors meant no witnesses. No witnesses meant no exposure of the Hammers’ part in whatever crazy game they were playing.

Michael found it hard to think straight but forced himself to go on. There could not be much time, and he had to work out a way to save himself and those few of the Ishaq’s crew lucky enough to have made it this far. He took a deep breath to steady himself, ignoring the pain beginning to burn back through the painkillers. There had to be a way. There must be a way. He thought and then thought harder, harder than he had ever thought before. His life depended on getting this right.

A buzz of voices announced the arrival of whoever it was Stork had called down. The new man, dressed like everyone else Michael had met, walked in quickly. Slamming the door, he sat down. The body language screamed senior officer, Michael thought. The man had that indefinable something that all brass projected. His eyes did, too. Startlingly blue, they were old eyes, the lines radiating out from them visible through the crude slits. They were the eyes of a man who had seen too much, who had watched death and destruction all his life. Suddenly, Michael felt very frightened. These were the eyes of a man to be afraid of.

The silence dragged on. Unaware he was even doing it, Michael pulled back from the man. His embryonic plan, which had looked so good only a moment before, appeared to be distinctly shaky. Well, he thought philosophically, it was all he had. Maybe the new man-Kingpig he was going to call him-would go for it.

Kingpig leaned forward. “So,” he hissed venomously, “you’re the famous hero of the Battle of Hell’s Moons?”

Michael sat silently. Even if he had largely ignored it up to now, FedWorld training was emphatic on many things, especially on how to behave when under interrogation. Stay quiet as long as possible. Speak only when the level of physical duress becomes unbearable, and then say as little as possible. Repeat ad nauseam until the cavalry came over the hill, shot the bad guys, rescued the good guys, and everyone lived happily ever after.

Yeah, right, Michael thought cynically. Somehow, he did not think the cavalry would get there in time.

He decided to throw the accumulated wisdom of the FedWorld’s interrogation experts into the bin. He had to take the risk.

He nodded, then wished he hadn’t. Christ, his head hurt. “I am, sir, though I think hero is overdoing it. I did my duty, just like you do yours.”

“Ah, duty.” Kingpig sat back. “Duty. It is such a convenient word. Duty-it covers so many sins, don’t you think?”

Michael shook his head carefully. “I don’t agree, sir. Not for us Feds. Maybe where you come from.”

A narrowing of Kingpig’s eyes warned Michael not to push too hard. Never forget this man is dangerous, he reminded himself. He took a deep breath. The time had come for the first roll of the dice.

“By the way, sir. We know who you are. You’re Hammers. You’re-”

“What? No, we are not!” Kingpig cut him off, his voice flat with barely controlled anger, his hands curling into fists pushed down onto the table. No, not just anger. There was something else there, Michael thought. Fear? What could this man be afraid of?

Well, Mister Kingpig, you are a bad liar, Michael thought, a really bad liar. He fought to keep his voice calm, even businesslike. He was not fighting for his life. His body was not a bruised, battered wreck. No. He and Kingpig were talking about the next flame-tree harvest. Businesspeople. Man to man.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Michael insisted, “but you are Hammers. We know you are. First, your accents are a dead giveaway. It’s pretty hard to mistake, you know.” He paused to see how Kingpig would respond. The man did not move, but his eyes did, closing to narrow slits. Slowly, Michael cautioned himself, slowly. It was time for the big lie.

“Second, sir, the Ishaq got an intelligence report a few weeks back. I must admit, it was pretty vague, but it did raise the possibility of a Hammer operation against allied traffic. Converted merchant ships fitted with rail guns. I don’t remember the rest, but Fleet did not rate the report highly, so it was pretty well ignored. In retrospect, that was one big mistake, I think.” Michael forced an angry bitterness into his voice. There may well have been such a report floating around the bureaucratic back blocks of Fleet, not that he or anyone else on board Ishaq had ever seen one. The only thing Ishaq had been given was all that crap about the Karlisle Alliance.

Michael watched Kingpig closely. His eyes had opened a fraction as Michael spoke. Bull’s-eye, he thought. The man had bought it, he decided, so it was time for the next big lie.

“So you see, sir,” Michael said, keeping his voice matter-of-fact, “it’s only a matter of time before Fleet connects the dots, puts the Hammer in the frame for what’s happened, and then I would say it’s probably all over. Stand by to receive boarders, and they won’t be coming for a chat over coffee and biscuits,” he added cheerfully. He did not feel cheerful at all. His heart was pounding. If Kingpig believed him, it would be in his personal interest to look after Michael and the rest of the captured Ishaqs. The Feds took an extremely dim view of Hammers who spaced prisoners of war, pursuing those responsible to the ends of humanspace with a relentless, cold-burning fury, and every Hammer knew it. But if Kingpig did not believe him, his prospects were not good.

Kingpig sat unmoving.

Say something, you Hammer asshole, Michael thought. For Christ’s sake, say something. But Kingpig was silent. Without another word, the man got to his feet and left the compartment, slamming the door behind him.

Michael was left alone for a long, long time. Unwilling to use the few painkiller drugbots he had left, he allowed the pain to return to his shattered body, wave after wave rising up until he began to drift in and out of consciousness. The Hammers must have done more damage than he realized, he thought as he started to slide into darkness.

He was jolted awake by the crash of the door opening. Three hooded men entered. His heart sank. He recognized two of them: Porky and Shithead. Without a word, the men cut away the plasticuffs before dragging him out of his seat and across the floor and then slamming him hard against the bulkhead. Michael’s mouth was dry with fear as his arms were forced over his head, new plasticuffs pulled brutally tight to lock his wrists to the pipework. Then his legs were forced apart and tied off. He was defenseless. All he could do was hang there as the three men stood in front of him. Oh, no, he thought. They all held what looked like baseball bats, and his old friend Shithead, his eyes closed to the thinnest of thin slits, did not look like he was there to offer Michael batting