Graham Paul: The battle at the Moons of Hell

Diallo fell silent.

She’d seen the INTSUMs with their vids of streets lined by lampposts, each with a dead rebel hanging by one leg, the gloating vidnews reports as yet another heretic guerrilla group was hunted down and exterminated, the haunting images as the families of Merrick supporters-men, women, and children, all guilty by association-were dragged away to whatever awful fate awaited them. The images would live in her mind forever.

The surveys showed that it wasn’t just Feds who’d begun to ask how much longer humanspace could tolerate such a psychopathic society in its midst. But one thing was sure: All Polk had done was postpone the happy day when the Hammer Worlds would self-destruct or the long-oppressed people of those unhappy worlds would finally overcome the forces ranged against them and throw the Doctrine of Kraa where it belonged: into the rubbish bin of history.

Diallo’s arms went up as she tried to stretch the sick tiredness out of her body. “For what it’s worth, Giovanni, I think crushing the uprising on Faith has convinced Polk he can do the same to us. I hate to say this, but the more I think about it, te more I think that’s what the stupid bastard has in mind. I might rerun some of our sim scenarios to see what that might mean for us. And we need to follow up on those reports from Commitment that the so-called heretic opposition is not as ineffective and fragmented as the Hammer would have us believe. If it comes to a fight with Polk, we’ll need to be signing them up on our side.” She sounded exhausted.

A dispirited Pecora nodded in tired agreement. “We’ll do all of that, Marta. Come on. Let’s give Nikolas Kaminski and his people a call. I think a serious chat, a very serious chat, over a few drinks is called for. I’m going to ask him to set up a time for us to talk to the secretary-general. I’m rather afraid we’re going to need the Alliance’s support. Come on.”

The Palisades, Ashakiran Planet

It felt like an age since he’d last stood on the deck of the Palisades. Now that he was back, he realized how much he’d missed it and how much his commitment to a Space Fleet career had cost him. He sighed as he commed his neuronics for the umpteenth time, checking that Anna was still on schedule before turning back to look out at the sunset.

As long as he lived, Michael knew he would never tire of the Palisades, a simple house tucked in under the enormous looming bulk of Mount Izbecki with a huge west-facing deck looking out across the Clearwater Valley.

As another day drew to a close, it was just stunning.

A bottle of Lethbridge pilsner in hand, Michael stood alone, looking out across the valley, happy to comply with strict orders to leave the dinner to his dad, a defective freshwater pump to his mom, and Sam to one of her never-ending calls to Arkady Encevit, her long-standing and sadly absent boyfriend.

Michael smiled.

His dad’s enthusiasm for the primitive art of cooking wasn’t quite matched by his skill. His mom, in contrast, refused point-blank to cook-why had chefbots been invented? she would always say when challenged-and she had a real way with the long-obsolete AIs embedded in the old and sometimes very recalcitrant systems that provided power and water to the Palisades. As for Sam, Michael wished she’d marry her heart’s desire and stop the long-distance mooning that seemingly filled her every waking hour.

Michael had been watching the thick black storm clouds building in the southwest for some time. The oncoming storm was a hard, raw-edged mass driving relentlessly across a horizon painted in lurid slashes of scarlet and gold, and the valley thousands of meters below was now invisible beneath a purple blanket that was rapidly deepening to black. It was going to be a rough night, he thought as he checked the local weather forecast for the umpteenth time. No changes. They were in for a real battering, and his concern about Anna’s arrival wasn’t wholly unplaced. The Palisades’s landing site, a small clearing cut out of the top of the thickly wooded ridge, was an absolute bastard when a southerly bluster was blowing, though it was a matter of family pride that nobody had ever failed to get in safely. As he knew Anna would, even if she’d be the first to admit she wasn’t the most naturally gifted flier pilot of all time. Michael told himself to relax. Anna invariably handed control to the flier’s AI at the first sign of trouble, and she would tonight if things got tricky.

As darkness began to fall, the wind now gusting fitfully to announce the storm front’s arrival, Michael’s neuronics pinged softly, reporting that Anna’s flier was safely through the Tien Shan Mountains and on final descent.

Finishing his beer, he set off up the hill to the Palisades’s landing site. Something told him that time alone with Anna was going to be at a premium, and short though the walk back from the landing site was, he was going to make the most of it.

Dinner had been a cheerful, lively, and at times raucous affair. In part, that was due to the disastrous collapse of Helfort Senior’s piece de resistance, a hand-crafted vermouth and crab souffle that sadly had in the end closely resembled a soggy crepe. Michael’s father had been devastated. Everyone had stifled an overwhelming urge to say “I told you so” and roared with laughter at Andrew’s look of horror as the prize dish, lightly browned, ambitiously bouffant, and as impressive as any souffle in history, had slowly, inexorably, and tragically deflated in front of them only seconds after it had been placed reverently on the table by the proud cook. Thankfully, the rest of the meal had been much more successful even if, in Michael’s humble opinion, the least capable chefbot could have done as good a job with a great deal less stress all around.

He wondered why his dad bothered; he certainly didn’t seem to enjoy the process much, judging by the appalling language emanating from the kitchen as the latest disaster struck home.

But in truth the buoyant mood had more to do with an overwhelming sense that the dinner was something special. After what had been the worst year and the best year they’d been through, it was a celebration of survival, of family, of the bonds of love and trust and shared experience and familiarity-and, most important for Michael, a sense that Anna was now an integral part of not just his life but the family’s, too.

Well, yes, he thought gloomily, provided that the demands of two Space Fleet careers didn’t smash the bond between them.

The passing moment of pessimism didn’t last, overwhelmed by the sheer enjoyment that flooded the room. Michael sat back as Sam rattled on about the latest developments in the Arkady Encevit saga, content to listen with half an ear while watching Anna with both eyes. He was transfixed as always by her extraordinary but somehow subtle and understated beauty as the log fire’s flickering red-gold light danced across her high cheekbones and flawless skin.

Michael sighed to himself. Anna had done well in Damishqui at the Battle of Hell’s Moons. Nothing spectacular but a good, solid performance under the intense pressure and stress of combat, well enough for her to know that she’d made the right decision in joining Space Fleet. And that meant that the relationship between them was a castle built on sand. The demands of two Space Fleet careers meant their time together would be fleeting, and that was a poor basis for an enduring relationship.

He sighed again. It was one of the great mysteries of life how his parents had stuck together despite being in exactly the same situation. But they had, so there was at least hope that he and Anna would make it together.

“Come on, Michael! Pay attention,” his father said from the end of the table, the souffle fiasco obviously forgotten, judging by his air of relaxed good humor.