The Battle of the Hammer Worlds

Constanza did not wait for more questions. “That will be all for now,” she declared, and left the room. Behind her, the meeting broke up in a welter of small talk.

Michael sighed, a long and heartfelt sigh of frustration. Stone patted him on the shoulder. “Michael! You are one unlucky boy. Anna is going to rip your balls off.” Stone looked positively cheerful at the prospect.

Michael nodded. “She surely will. If she gets close enough, that is, which I doubt she ever will. Christ, what a life we lead. I’d better go and get a vidmail off to her.”

Stone shook his head. “No. Don’t do that. Wait for the revised program to come out. You never know your luck. We might get a few days off somewhere, and maybe the relationship fairy will arrange for Damishqui to be alongside at the same time.”

“Or maybe the relationship fairy will keep you apart,” an unfamiliar voice taunted. “A true test of the bonds of luuuuuve.” Everyone found this highly amusing; Michael’s love life-or lack of it-was turning into an enjoyably soft target.

“You are all bastards,” Michael responded without rancor. “Heartless, scum-sucking bastards.”

“What crap you all talk.” Stone shook his head in despair. “Michael! I’m sure it’ll turn out okay. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Check the ship’s program, then write the vidmail. Oh, and in case you’ve forgotten, before we go chasing pirates, we have a long weekend to look forward to. Kelly’s Deep, here we come!”

Michael had to laugh at Stone’s infectious enthusiasm. Stone was right to be fired up, and he was not alone. In fact, everyone was practically drooling at the thought of Ishaq’s long-planned formal visit to Kelly’s Deep, and for good reason.

When it came to foreign ports, Kelly’s Deep would rate in the top five in all of humanspace. The planet was a great place to spend a long weekend. Not quite up to the standard of Jackson’s or Scobie’s, but damn good nonetheless. Great scenery, great beaches, cheap booze, some of the best food in the cosmos and-not that he would be interested, of course-some of the friendliest people known to humankind.

Michael slid out of his seat. Everyone senior to him finally had left, so the chance of being ambushed by a senior officer on the lookout for some poor sucker to do some shitty little job or other was now minimal. He had things to do. True to form, Stone’s advice had been good advice, and he intended to take it.

“I’m off. See you all later.”

Tuesday, July 6, 2399, UD

FWSS Ishaq, berthed on SBS-44, in orbit around Jascaria

“All stations, this is command. Stand by to drop in ten minutes.”

Well, thank God for that, Michael thought. Finally! The wait had been a long one. His still-painful left leg did not appreciate it when he sat around doing nothing; low-impact exercise was what it liked, and lots of it. Not that he had much say in the matter. With Ishaq firmly berthed on SBS-44, the job of assistant sensor officer responsible for passive intercepts was a nothing assignment. And all in all, it had been a bad morning; things had not gone well. The Ishaq’s scheduled departure time had come and gone; despite the crew’s frantic efforts to get the ship under way, what could go wrong had gone wrong.

First there was a glitch with the forward maneuvering system. Then there was a main engine problem, quickly followed by another with one of the auxiliary fusion plants. All the while, the command holocam feed through to the sensor management center showed Captain Constanza pacing up and down the combat information center in frustration, her face blotched red with barely concealed rage. Michael tried not to smile at the obvious efforts everyone was making to avoid her mounting anger, heads well down, eyes locked firmly on holovid screens. Inevitably, not everyone succeeded, and the unlucky ones earned an earful of abuse and threats, with Commander Morrissen as ever bearing the brunt of her spiteful anger.

The growing sense of relief was almost palpable as the minutes ticked away without any more setbacks. Finally the moment came. The time-honored phrase “All stations, this is command. Ishaq is go for launch. May God watch over us this day” was broadcast throughout the ship. With a faint tremor, hydraulic locking arms pushed the massive heavy cruiser away from the space battle station. Ishaq was at last on its way to its designated departure pipe en route to Kelly’s Deep.

He turned his attention back to the data feeds from Ishaq’s passive sensors, looking for anything his operators and the sensor AIs might have missed. He was so absorbed in the feeds that he jumped when Constanza stood the crew down from departure stations as Ishaq settled down for the long low-g haul out-system. Thankful that Ishaq was on its way, Michael began to relax a little as he handed over the duty to his relief and slipped out of the sensor management center.

Michael put Constanza out of his mind as he threaded his way through the training office’s maze of workstations before settling himself into his tiny cubicle. He sighed. Fellsworth had given him a mound of things to do, all of them undemanding and none of them even remotely interesting. He sighed again as he commed his neuronics to bring up the first job on the list, an analysis of the sims used to train Ishaq’s junior spacers in basic sensor drills. Constanza was not happy about the results the trainers were getting, and Fellsworth wanted him to make sure the problem did not lie with the simulations her department produced.

He did not get far.

“Michael! Job for you.”

It was Fellsworth.

“Okay, sir.”

“You know Ishaq’s annual operational readiness evaluation is scheduled for late January?”

“Yes, sir. I do.” How could he forget? Ishaq’s ORE was perhaps the single most important event in the ship’s year.

Substandard OREs had destroyed more than a few Fleet careers; he could only hope that Constanza’s was one of them.

“Right. I want you to produce one of the command exercises we need to get ready. I’ll comm you the specs so I won’t have to waste any time explaining precisely what I want. It’ll all be there. I want an initial outline of what you plan to do by. . um, let me see, yes. Friday, 16:00. Nothing too detailed. Just an outline of what you think the COMEX should look like from the Hammer point of view. Geopolitical script, rough concept of operations, order of battle, time line, that sort of thing. You know the drill. Okay?”

Michael nodded. “Yes, sir! First cut of the COMEX by 16:00 Friday.”

“Good. Now, it’s a big job, so I’ve detailed Chief Petty Officer Ichiro and Petty Officer Bettany to help. Make the most of them. They are very good people.”

Wednesday, July 7, 2399, UD

Gravity Research Station Lima-5, deepspace

Fleet Admiral Jorge left the fast courier ship and brushed past the small gaggle of officers who made up the formal welcoming party. A casual salute was his only acknowledgment.

Professor Wendt was waiting for him by the door of the conference room.

“Professor,” Jorge said curtly. “Ready?”

“Yes, sir,” Wendt replied, ushering Jorge into a cramped room that was brilliantly lit and sparsely furnished. Jorge ignored the rest of Wendt’s team, a mixed bunch of men in white lab coats, their faces a mix of fear, tension, and exhaustion. Professor Wendt and what he had to say were the only things that mattered to him. He took his seat. “Let’s go.”

“Right, sir. The purpose of this meeting is-”