Graham Paul - The battle for Commitment planet

"Knew you were doing it a bit tough." Bienefelt's frown made her concern obvious. "We've been a bit worried about you, I have to say."

"I'll be fine, Matti, though I will be happy when we get started. It seems like a lifetime since I received that scumbag Hartspring's surprise package. Shit, that was only a few months ago. Can't believe how much has happened since then. Anyway, I'd better let you get on. I'll see you both at the final briefing."

"Sir."

Michael watched the pair leave the combat information center, Ferreira dwarfed by Bienefelt's enormous bulk, then returned his attention to the threat plot, one eye locked on the time-to-jump counter while the seconds ran off.

His walk-around finished, Michael stood back to look at Widowmaker, trying to ignore the excitement forcing its way up through the tension. "Goddamn it," he murmured. "We are really going to do this; we really are." All of a sudden, it felt good to be standing there on the brink of the most insane mission ever planned, a mission no reasonable spacer would ever have countenanced. It felt good to be taking the fight back to the Hammers. It felt good even to be going back to Commitment, a planet he had sworn never to revisit, because to go back meant Anna would be okay. Best of all, it felt good because the days of waiting, of wondering how to keep Anna out of Hartspring's hands, were over.

And you, he thought, are just the machine I want to ride into battle. A matte-black, blunt-nosed wedge, the light ground-attack lander was no work of art. Like its big sisters, it was a lethal machine, designed to do one thing and one thing only: dump death on the heads of Hammer ground troops. He patted an armored flank, not out of any affection-nobody could love something so brutal, so ugly-but out of respect. Widowmaker deserved nothing less. "Take care of us," he whispered as he slapped Widowmaker's flank again, "because today, my butt-ugly friend, we jam it right up those Hammers' asses."

Half closing his eyes, he patched his neuronics through to the lander's AI. As tradition demanded, its avatar was that of a middle-aged woman, her pale hazel eyes set in a face the color of mahogany gazing at Michael with a directness he found unsettling.

"Mother," he said, wishing he had taken the time to get to know the AI in whose hands his life now rested, "all set?"

"Yes, sir," the lander AI replied. "All systems nominal, fusion plants are at standby, main engines at one minute's notice, reaction controls at immediate notice, weapons tight, all pax loaded and in position, cargo secured, lander's mass nominal for atmospheric reentry."

"Roger that," Michael said. "Anything else I should know?"

"No, sir. I have reviewed the operations plan and have found no errors or omissions. Widowmaker is ready."

"Good. One thing, though, Mother. I have not commanded a lander in combat… ever. So do not hold back. If you think something is wrong, for chrissakes say so. I'm a long way from being a command-qualified pilot."

"Yes, sir," Mother said, the hint of a smile creasing the corners of her eyes, "but you'll be fine."

"We'll see," Michael said, doing his best to ignore a sudden cramping that banded his chest with iron, "we'll see."

Giving Widowmaker another pat, this time to reassure himself that things really would work out, he pulled his awkward space-suited mass up the crew access ladder to Widowmaker's flight deck one step at a time as he dragged his damaged leg behind him. Shutting the hatch behind him, he squeezed past the crew stations and dropped heavily into his seat, nerves jangling, his stomach turning over and over with the feeling of sick dread he always felt before combat.

Time to get started, he said to himself. "All stations, command. Depressurizing in two, so faceplates down, suit integrity checks to Mother. We'll be jumping on schedule. Command out."

Michael commed Petty Officer Morozov, Widowmaker's newly appointed loadmaster.

"Tammy, how's my LALO team?"

"Shitting themselves, I think, sir," Morozov said from a jury-rigged seat atop a stack of cases holding shells for Widowmaker's cannons, a ghostly figure through the skeins of mist chasing their way through the cargo bay as the lander depressurized. "I know I'd be if I was them; I hate LALO. But they're ready to go. I have six personnel pods and four stores pods closed up, all nominal for launch, deployment system nominal. The only problem is Chief Bienefelt. She's not happy, not happy at all, sir."

"Not happy," Michael said with a frown. "That's not like her. Why?"

"Get this, sir. She's pissed because we insisted she's too big to share a pod, so she has one pod all to herself. She says she's lonely."

"Oh! Is that all?" Michael laughed, struggling to envisage Bienefelt feeling lonely. "Tell her I'll buy her a beer when we get dirtside. Assuming there's somewhere to buy beer, that is."

"Don't worry about that, sir. I don't know of a single system in humanspace where you can't get a beer."

"You're right. Good luck."

"Thanks, sir."

Quick comms to Sedova and Acharya confirmed that everything was ready to go. Fidgety and pale, Hell Bent's command pilot looked nervous; Sedova the exact opposite. Smiling, chatty, and bright eyed, she clearly relished the prospect of going back into action. He hoped all that cheerful anticipation would not be misplaced. He turned to Ferreira. "All set?"

"Am, sir. Mother confirms Widowmaker is nominal; we have all green suits. Redwood, Red River, and Redress are nominal. Alley Kat and Hell Bent are nominal. We're ready to go."

"Warfare?"

"Concur. Ready."

"Roger."

The seconds dragged past in silence until, an age later, it was time. "All stations, this is command. Stand by to jump. Weapons free. Warfare has command authority."

"Roger, Warfare has command authority. Red River and Redress jumping now… Stand by to jump… jumping… now!"

Twelve seconds behind her sister dreadnoughts, Redwood microjumped into and out of pinchspace. Michael jerked back in his seat, his heart battering at the walls of his chest as the vid from the external holocams stabilized, the ugly black mass that was Commitment planet filling the screen. They were committed; they had to go on. This deep inside Commitment's gravity well, any attempt to jump back into pinchspace would be instant suicide.

Warfare acted. Redwood shuddered as her main engines went to emergency power, lances of white-hot energy stabbing down toward the Hammer planet. Ahead of Redwood, Red River and Redress were already decelerating hard, their Krachov generators spewing millions of tiny disks, chased into space by the first salvo of missiles and their protective shroud of decoys. Redwood followed suit; a crunching metallic thud announced the dreadnought's opening rail-gun salvo from her aft batteries, the huge swarm of tiny slugs racing toward Commitment. The dreadnoughts' forward rail-gun batteries joined the battle, their salvos of slugs dumped into space to form a cloud of confusion expanding away from the dreadnoughts.

Without knowing it, Michael's mouth tightened into a savage rictus of sheer animal ferocity. He watched as the rail-gun slugs smashed into Commitment's upper atmosphere, transforming it into an incandescent flaming mass of ionized air.

"Suck that, you bastards," he hissed, fierce joy engulfing his body in an exultant flood. After the stress of the last weeks, it felt so good to be striking back, even though he knew the slugs were too small to achieve much except a spectacular if shortlived fireworks show. But they would pressure the Hammer's inflexible and rule-bound commanders, commanders for whom the price of failure was always the same: a DocSec lime pit. Everything the dreadnoughts did was designed to make those commanders stop, wonder just what the hell was going on, worry that they had missed something important, keep the awful image of lime-filled graves in their mind's eye.