Graham Paul: The battle at the Moons of Hell

Michael had to smile at Perec’s forthright use of carrot and stick. “It’s all right sir, say no more. I’m convinced. To be honest, sir, I actually don’t think I can stand up much longer.”

“Good man. I’ll tell Captain Baktiar that you are on your way. I know your XO. Chief Harris is a good man. He’ll manage fine until the base teams have taken over, and I’ll make sure that 387 gets everything it needs.”

“Thank you, sir,” Michael said quietly with a half smile.

He stood there for a second. As he turned toward the station, his left leg finally gave way and he crumpled unceremoniously to the deck.

Federated Worlds Space Fleet Barracks, Foundation, Terranova Planet

Michael’s stomach was a churning mass, and the fact that he hadn’t been able to eat anything for days didn’t help settle the worst attack of nerves he had ever experienced.

Michael had taken up position well clear of the milling mass of spacers crowded onto the huge parade ground that lay at the heart of Foundation’s sprawling Space Fleet barracks. He watched in silence as Chief Harris, aided and abetted by the ever-imperturbable Cosmo Reilly, quickly and efficiently brought order out of 387 ’s tiny part of the chaos. The morning sun of another brilliant Terranova day struck dazzling shards off medals and gold badges stark against dress black.

A firm hand on his shoulder brought him back to earth.

“For God’s sake, Michael, try not to look so nervous!”

Bill Chen’s cheerful face was the best thing Michael had seen all day. His dress uniform was immaculate, the deep crimson ribbon around his throat supporting the gold Valor in Combat starburst, the award bright with newness and brilliant against the black of his dress uniform. In comparison, the silver Hell’s Moons campaign medal hanging on a blue and yellow ribbon studded with a tiny gold command star that hung on his left breast looked washed out. On his left sleeve, a thin gold hash mark close to the cuff recorded 166 ’s unit citation for the Corona operation, and on his right was stitched his first combat command hash mark, also in gold.

Michael took a deep breath, his right hand moving without his knowing it first to check that his own Valor in Combat starburst was in place and then down to the two unit citations on his left arm. Truth was, he felt very overdressed, almost gaudy.

“Oh, hello, Bill. Can’t help it, sorry. Don’t much like crowds, and my damn leg still hurts.”

The captain of DLS-166 smiled indulgently. “Hang in there. It’ll all be over before you know it.”

Michael sighed deeply. “I know. I just wish 166 could be up front alongside us. God knows you earned it.”

“You know the rules, Michael. Order of ships in parade is determined by losses, so you’ll forgive me when I tell you I’m happy to be well back in the parade with most of my crew intact. We were lucky, damned lucky, and to this day I still don’t how I lost so few when that Hammer slug came inboard.”

“I wish we’d been lucky. None of this”-Michael waved an arm across the assembled spacers-“makes up for it.”

“No, it doesn’t and it never will,” Chen said, his voice heavy with sympathy. He couldn’t begin to understand what Michael had been through. “Michael, I’d better go. We’re behind the Al-Jahiz and the Damishqui , and the funeral AI’s getting fractious. I’ll catch up with you afterward.”

“Will do, Bill,” Michael said as Reilly and Chief Harris, finally satisfied that they had the surviving crew members of 387 where they needed to be, made their way over.

In deference to the occasion, Harris’s salute was stiff and formal, the silver-gray T’changa badge on his left shoulder bright in the morning sun, the ribbon holding his gold Valor in Combat starburst glowing richly in the yellow light. “ Deepspace Light Scout Three Eight Seven present and accounted for, sir.”

Michael’s salute was equally formal. “Thank you, chief. And thanks for sticking with us.”

Harris nodded. “No problem, sir. No problem at all. It’s been an honor, and I think it’s what the Doc would have wanted.”

Michael looked across at Reilly. “Cosmo, you okay?”

“Well enough, skipper. Though it’s damned hard. I never thought I’d miss them as much as I do.”

Michael could only nod. There was a short awkward pause.

“I’m not looking forward to this, either,” Michael said, bobbing his head at the mass of Federated Worlds spacers neatly formed up behind the 387 s.

Reilly and Chief Harris both smiled.

“As if we couldn’t tell,” Reilly said. “We’ll be right behind you, and the AI will make sure it all goes off all right. Don’t worry.”

Michael nodded. Easy to say, but in a few minutes he’d be the one out in front of hundreds of thousands of Worlders. And thanks to World News Network’s epic four-hour holovid of the entire Corona operation screened in prime time and reportedly watched by nearly every FedWorlder able to stand, every one of them would know who he was and what he’d done. It was not a thought he relished; the idea that he might be somebody famous was completely at odds with his natural inclination to blend into the background. He’d never been one to seek the spotlight. The opposite, in fact. His mother always used to say that if you wanted to know where Michael was at any public occasion, look behind the back row. And now he would be at the head of the biggest public display the Fleet had put on in decades.

“You’re right as usual, Cosmo. Okay, chief. Let’s do the final walk-around and then we’ll be set.”

“Sir.”

It took only minutes for Michael and Harris to check that the 387 s were as they should be, the spacers precisely arrayed in a few thin ranks, a gap in the last rank serving as a stark reminder of those missing.

“Very good, chief. Stand the crew at ease.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

As Harris turned away to give the order, huge double gates to Michael’s right began to swing slowly back. Michael’s heart sank as the gates opened to reveal an old-fashioned column of horse-drawn gun carriages.

He’d been dreading this moment.

To Michael’s way of thinking, black-plumed horses and the deeply varnished wood, polished leather, and burnished brass of gun carriage and harness struck an oddly discordant note. Their primitive simplicity was out of place in a world of neuronics, AIs, mass drivers, and pinchspace travel. But as his father often had pointed out, the archaic traditions of military ceremony were dear to every Worlder’s heart. So whatever he might think, horses pulling gun carriages would play their traditional part in carrying the ashes of those fallen in battle to their final resting place.

On a sudden impulse, Michael left his 387 s and made his way across the yard to the column of gun carriages. The pungent earthy straw smell of horses in the warmth of the morning sun hit him as he walked over.

The gray-uniformed Planetary Service warrant officer at the head of the column snapped to attention and saluted as Michael approached.

“Chief Warrant Officer Kamal, officer in charge. An honor, sir.”

“Thanks, Mister Kamal. I…I just…I just wanted to see them before we left. I…” Michael’s voice trailed off as the emotion rose, choking his throat shut with sudden intensity.

“Go ahead, sir. We’ve got time.” Kamal’s voice was gentle. “And I think the captains of the Al-Jahiz and Damishqui want to do the same. And Lieutenant Chen. Behind you, sir.”

Befuddled for a second as protocol and emotion short-circuited his brain, Michael recovered in time to half turn and salute as the two four-ring captains stopped in front of him; his salute was returned by the pair with military precision. Bill Chen stood a pace behind with a half smile on his face as he watched Michael recover from his momentary confusion.