Graham Paul: The Battle of the Hammer Worlds

Michael smiled, pleased to find that he had at least one ally onboard Ishaq. “All good, I hope?”

Petrovic’s face crinkled into a broad grin. “Not for me to say, sir. Matti would tear my arms off if I did.”

Michael laughed. He knew she could; Leading Spacer Matthilde “Matti” Bienefelt was big enough to tear the arms off a geneered gorilla. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lieutenant Xing’s spine stiffen. Clearly, the man was undecided as to whether Michael was best ignored or a challenge to his authority that needed to be dealt with firmly on the spot.

Michael decided to save Xing the trouble of choosing. The man was a complete jerk-probably that was being generous-but it was not a smart move to upset him even more. He should go.

With a quiet word of thanks to Petrovic, Michael walked out of the personnel air lock. He could only hope that the rest of Ishaq ’s officers were not like Xing.

Federated Worlds Warship Kapteyn’s Star, in deepspace

“Okay, ops. Let’s go to general quarters.”

“Sir!”

Lieutenant Commander Marco Gianfranco, captain in command of the Federated Worlds Warship Kapteyn’s Star, sat back and watched as the combat information center dissolved around him into controlled chaos, combat space-suited spacers hurrying into their positions, chased along by the urgent demands of the ship’s klaxon. He had a good team; in less than a minute, chaos had been replaced by the low murmur of a combat information center crew bringing the ship to full combat readiness.

“Captain, sir,” Gianfranco’s executive officer and second in command reported formally moments later, “the ship is at general quarters in ship state 1, closed up to airtight condition zulu.”

“Roger. Boarding party?”

“Loaded; assault lander is at immediate notice to launch, sir.”

“Good. Let’s hope we see some action this time.”

“Oh, please, let it be,” Gianfranco’s executive officer said with a grimace. “I’m going walkabout.”

“Off you go,” Gianfranco said, waving the man away. “All stations, this is command. Depressurizing and shutting down artgrav in two minutes.” They might be up against only a couple of smugglers, but Gianfranco was not one to take chances. If anyone started shooting back, he would rather not have them punching holes in a hull under pressure, and leaving his artificial gravity on would make him vulnerable to detection even by commercial gravitronics sensors.

“Command, Mother. Kruger, Markeb, and Alioth report ready in all respects.”

“Roger.” There was nothing more Gianfranco needed to say. If Mother-the AI that ran Kapteyn’s Star ’s mission-critical systems-said the four deepspace heavy scouts that constituted Task Unit 950.5.3 were ready, they were ready. And so they should be. To a spacer, everyone knew exactly what had to be done, and he was not going to waste their time and his going over it again. He sat back, content to let Mother and his two senior warfare officers-operations to his left, threat assessment to his right-attend to the details of what some creative genius in operations planning had called Operation Final Blocker.

For the umpteenth time that long morning, Gianfranco scanned the massive holovid screens that curtained the combat information center in front of him. Nothing had changed. Passive sensors from the four ships of the task unit, relentlessly crunching data sucked by the terabyte from billions of cubic kilometers of space, reported nothing unusual; this particular blob of interstellar deepspace was completely empty and had been that way for a very long time.

Gianfranco suppressed a sigh. The Kapteyn’s Star had been part of the Federated Worlds’ blockade of the Hammer Worlds for six long months now; he had lost count of the number of times they had been dispatched-always in response to reliable intelligence, of course-to some featureless point in deepspace to intercept blockade runners that never turned up.

He reckoned he had good grounds for thinking that this time would be a bust like all the rest. Though as an optimist at heart, he could always hope he might be wrong.

The minutes dragged by. Gianfranco cursed under his breath. This was shaping up to be yet another wild goose chase. He shifted restlessly in his seat, his combat space suit stiff and uncomfortable. He turned to his operations officer.

“Well, Tamu, what do you reckon? Another bu-”

The matter-of-fact voice of Kapteyn’s Star ’s sensor officer cut him off. “Command, sensors. Positive gravitronics intercept. Estimated drop bearing Green 25 Up 5. One vessel. Grav wave pattern suggests pinchspace transition imminent. Designated hostile track 885001.”

Well, well, well, Gianfranco thought exultantly. Finally. “Command, roger. Okay, folks, let’s do this right. Threat! I want confirmation of this one’s identity as fast as you can.”

“Roger that, sir.”

“Mother, anything from the other ships?”

“Triangulating now. Stand by. . consensus drop datum is at Green 23 Up 4, range 50,000 kilometers.”

Bingo, Gianfranco thought. Close but not too close. For once, the intel they had been given was on the money.

“Roger.”

“Command, sensors. Track 885001 dropping now. Confirm drop datum at Green 23 Up 4 at 45,000 kilometers.”

Gianfranco watched the command holovid intently as a fleeting flare of ultraviolet betrayed the inbound ship’s drop out of pinchspace. Yes, he said to himself exultantly, finally.

“Command, sensors. Hostile track 885001 confirmed as Constancy, Holterman system registration.”

“Threat concurs.”

“Command, roger.” Gianfranco breathed out a sigh of relief. Game on.

Ten long minutes later, the second piece of the puzzle dropped into place. Gianfranco and the rest of the combat information center crew watched with bated breath as the task unit’s sensors tracked what should be an incoming Hammer ship as it dropped out of pinchspace in a flash of ultraviolet radiation. And then the ground underneath Operation Final Blocker shifted.

“Command, sensors. Hostile track 885002 is the Hammer Diamond class deepspace light patrol ship Adamantine .”

“Threat concurs.”

“Oh, shit,” Gianfranco murmured. This was definitely not standard operating procedure for Hammer blockade runners. The Constancy ’s cargo had to be something the Hammer really, really wanted for them to send a light patrol ship to pick it up. This operation was not going to be the walk in the park he had planned. Diamond class ships were rail-gun-armed, and rail guns could do his ships some very serious damage.

“Mother! To all ships,” he snapped, “maintain current vectors, stand by revised tacplan.”

Gianfranco watched the command holovid intently, the two blockade runners now marked by blazing red icons. His rules of engagement were crystal clear. It might be utterly improbable for two ships to be in close proximity in the middle of nowhere, but he could not fire so much as a peashooter at them without unequivocal holocam evidence that Constancy had transferred cargo to a Hammer ship contrary to the flight plan her captain had lodged with Korovin nearspace control. Well, Gianfranco consoled himself, at least this time no smart-ass lawyer was going to stand up in court to argue that the Adamantine was anything but a Hammer ship.

Here we go, he said to himself as the first container crossed the gap between the two ships to disappear slowly into Adamantine ’s cargo bay, the handlers visibly struggling with the container’s awkward bulk. Gianfranco had seen enough.