Helfort's War: Book 1

by Graham Sharp Paul

“Abort remaining missile salvos,” Jaruzelska said flatly. The butchery was done.

  Jaruzelska rubbed her face wearily. She now had status reports from all of her subordinate commanders. Thankfully, they’d gotten what they’d come for: the 158 passengers and crew taken from the Mumtaz and 22 of the 30 hijackers. The rest were dead. And she’d had the pinchcomm from Rear Admiral Kzela confirming the successful recovery of the Mumtazers marooned on Eternity.

  Could have been a hell of a lot worse, she thought, though the price paid by 387 had been far too high. But considering that the premission sims had shown a strong chance that Battle Group Delta would lose at least one major fleet unit with heavy casualties, they had been lucky. She shivered. With only a pair of heavy cruisers close to any one of the battle group’s four drop points, the losses could have been even worse. Still, the only real surprise had been the New Dallas and the ships of her task group. Thank God they’d dropped well short and, even more important, that 166 and 387 had been there to lure them into turning away for those critical few minutes as the battle group dropped.

  But that didn’t help 166 and 387, which were still a good two or more hours away from being jump-capable. Jaruzelska had no intention of leaving them alone in Hammer space. A minute’s consideration and she knew what she would do. She’d keep Al-Jahiz and Sina together with Crossbow and Bombard back in support of 166 and 387 until they jumped.

  For everyone else, it was time to go home.

  Thursday, November 19, 2398, UD

  Offices of the Supreme Council for the Preservation of the Faith, City of McNair, Commitment Planet

  Merrick had been dragged from sleep by the news of the Feds’ attack on Hell, and it had taken him only a few sleep-befuddled seconds to work out precisely why they were doing what they were doing.

  From that moment on, he knew he was a dead man.

  Desperately, he scoured his mind to work out some way, any way, of surviving the storm that was about to break over his head, but there was none. He’d gambled, risking everything he’d had to play with, and the gamble had failed. That was it, and there was no way back, no way out.

  Now the moment of judgment had come, and Merrick could do nothing but sit at the Council table and await the executioner’s ax. He would at least go with as much dignity as the circumstances allowed, fighting every step of the way as he’d done all his life.

  The hastily convened meeting of the Supreme Council finally came to order as Polk and Albrecht hurried into the room. Close on their heels followed a disheveled and very anxious Councillor Kando the newly appointed councillor for intelligence. He was obviously half-panicked by the early hour and worried sick that something had happened that his department should have known about but hadn’t. Merrick managed a wry smile in spite of himself.

  Let the charade begin, Merrick thought as he looked down the table. Time for one last bluff. “Good morning, everyone. We are here to decide what immediate actions we must take in response to the unprovoked attack by the Federated Worlds on the Hell planetary system. I suggest we start by asking the councillor for war and external security for an—”

  Polk held a hand up, stopping him dead. “I think not, Merrick, I think not.”

  Merrick couldn’t stop himself, half rising to his feet as he spoke. “How dare you, Councillor Polk,” he barked, “how dare you! I am the chief councillor, and you will address me as such or you will face the consequences.”

  Polk’s voice was silky smooth, “I don’t think so, Merrick. And what consequences might those be, anyway?” He waved a hand dismissively in Merrick’s general direction. “I don’t care what you think anymore. What we should do is hear from the councillor for foreign relations about what you have been up to behind the backs of the Council.”

  The assembled councillors could do nothing but stare open-mouthed. Something terrible was about to happen and they had absolutely no idea what it was. In the circumstances, all they could do was sit, their minds desperately trying to work out how best to survive the coming storm.

  Claude Albrecht, the councillor for foreign relations, looked like he was trying to bring up a half-digested meal of broken glass. “Thank you, Councillor Polk. I have here,” he mumbled, waving a single sheet of paper, “a diplomatic note from the Federated Worlds which I shall read to you in its entirety. It goes as follows.”

  Albrecht paused, his extreme discomfort obvious to all.

  “Get on with it, you Kraa-damned bastard,” Merrick muttered.

  “To the Government of the Worlds of the Hammer of Kraa.” There was another pause as Albrecht struggled to stop the quaver in his voice. With a visible effort, he got himself back under control.

  “You are hereby served Notice that a State of Limited War is hereby declared and shall exist between the peoples of the Federated Worlds and the Worlds of the Hammer of Kraa with effect from 04:15 Universal Time on the nineteenth day of November 2398 Universal Date.

  “In accordance with the New Washington Convention, you are hereby advised that the Affirmed Basis of this Declaration is the hijacking of the Federated Worlds Commercial Ship Mumtaz, registration number FWCS-700451-G, hereinafter known as the Mumtaz, on the eleventh day of September 2398 Universal Date for the express purpose of diverting its cargo to the terraforming of the planet Judgment-III, hereinafter known as Eternity. This illegal act was directed by Brigadier General Digby, Hammer of Kraa Marines, under the direct orders of Jesse Merrick, Chief Councillor of the Worlds of the Hammer of Kraa.

  “Further, as required by the Convention, you are hereby advised that the objectives of the Limited War are the rescue of the passengers and crew of the Mumtaz from illegal detention on Eternity and various moons of the Revelation-II planetary system, the arrest of Brigadier General Digby and all other persons reasonably believed to be responsible for the planning and execution of the hijack to face trial in the courts of the Federated Worlds, the safe recovery of the Mumtaz and as much of its cargo as possible, and the safe departure of Federated Worlds forces from Hammer space. Upon the satisfactory achievement of these objectives or 07:00 Universal Time on the nineteenth day of November 2398 Universal Date, whichever is the later, the State of Limited War shall cease. Thereafter, a Demand for Financial Restitution shall be served.

  “As required by the Convention, the Statement of Facts relating to this matter is attached to the Declaration, having been attested to by Corinne Bhose, Chief Observer of the Federated Worlds.

  “Delivered to the hand of Tae Uk Yoon, Ambassador of the Worlds of the Hammer of Kraa to the Federated Worlds, at 04:05 Universal Time on the nineteenth day of November 2398 Universal Date by my authorized delegate, Giovanni Pecora, Federal Minister of Interstellar Relations.

  “Signed, Reshmi Diouf, President, Federated Worlds, and dated the nineteenth day of November 2398 Universal Date.”

  Councillor Albrecht put the piece of paper down on the table. Probably Merrick’s most committed supporter, he was the first to break the stunned silence that followed. His voice was harsh and his face grim as he looked up the table directly at Merrick.

  “True or not, Jesse? True or not?”

  Merrick sat there, unmoving.

  Fear and frustration that the man on whom his life depended could have been so stupid drove Albrecht’s voice into a cracked scream. “True or not? Tell me, Kraa-damn it! Is it true?”

  “Answer the question, Merrick.” Polk was unable to keep the satisfaction out of his voice.

  The pause was a long one.

  Finally, Merrick nodded once and sat back in his seat as if to say, Do what you want. He could have argued the point, tried to bluff his way out of it. Ten years earlier, he would have. Polk as usual overestimated the strength of his position even if it was probably strong enough to see Merrick at the bottom of a DocSec lime pit. No, he was tired, bone-tired, utterly spent. He really didn’t care anymore.

  Despite the fact that his own life had been put in jeopardy by the unilateral actions of the man at the h
ead of the Council table, Albrecht’s voice softened. He had always respected Merrick, and certainly the man had been better than most chief councillors of recent times. “Why, Jesse? Why? This is not how we do business. You should know that better than anyone.”

  Merrick waved a hand uncertainly. “I…I had my reasons, but I suspect that most of you don’t want to hear them,” he muttered as Polk looked on, his face hard with triumph.

  Polk knew there would never be a better time, and he struck. “No, we don’t, Merrick. You can explain it to Doc-Sec. I move that Jesse Merrick be removed as chief councillor and held for trial by the investigating tribunal. All those in favor.”

  The vote was a formality, with every hand in the air within seconds. Polk’s lip curled in a half sneer; they had good reason to be quick, he thought, especially Merrick’s men. He would take his time about it, but they would know the meaning of the word fear before many months were out.

  The next step followed as surely as day follows night. As Merrick was bundled away, hands tied behind his back with the ubiquitous plasticuffs so loved by DocSec, with three heavily built troopers towering over the bent and broken figure, the councillors were not able to keep the shock and surprise from their eyes. Moments later, the motion to appoint Polk as chief councillor was carried unanimously.

  Polk savored the moment for a long minute, the shattered remnants of Merrick’s supporters silent and still, faces white with shock at the awful suddenness of it all. Then the orders flowed: the immediate announcement of Merrick’s arrest for dereliction of duty, his replacement by Polk, full holovid coverage of the outrageous Fed assault, military funerals for those killed, an immediate purge of the senior ranks of the military, a board of inquiry to look into the disaster, and a warrant for the arrest of Brigadier General Digby.

  If there had been any doubt about who was in control, there was none anymore.

  Then the meeting was over. As councillors fled with unseemly haste, Polk moved to the chief councillor’s chair at the head of the Council table. He sat down, exultant, his victory complete. The one order he hadn’t given—to hunt down and exterminate every influential supporter of Jesse Merrick—could wait until tomorrow. He was inclined not to talk up Merrick’s role in the Fed attack. He had a feeling that the more he could portray the Feds as unprincipled aggressors, the more pressure he could bring to bear on the insurgents who plagued Faith.

  If the Feds thought that the fallout from the Mumtaz affair was now a matter for the diplomats, they’d badly underestimated Jeremiah Polk. After all, centuries of human history had shown that there was nothing better than an external threat when it came to crushing internal dissent. He didn’t think he would have much trouble convincing his people—he liked that, “his people”—that the Feds’ real agenda was the destruction of the Hammer Worlds. And even if it took ten years, he would make sure the Feds suffered for the humiliation they had heaped on the Hammer of Kraa.

  The tiny fires lit by the news of Merrick’s arrest and transfer to McNair State Prison smoldered for a while before bursting into life and spreading like wildfire.

  Within the hour, people began to emerge onto the streets of the sprawling industrial suburbs to the south of McNair, small groups coalescing first into large groups and then into mobs, the anger building as leaders emerged to whip emotion into action. The message was the same, hurled out by angry and defiant men at angry and defiant people in hundreds of impromptu street meetings: Merrick was one of them, he’d come from the same mean streets as they had, and they’d be damned if they would allow an off-worlder like Polk to take over.

  By late morning, smoke began to darken the sky over McNair, the air split with the sirens of DocSec convoys deploying to cordon off the city center. Their instructions were clear and simple: Stop the mobs converging on McNair State Prison. At any cost.

  Thursday, November 19, 2398, UD

  DLS-387 and DSLS-166, Hell Nearspace

  Michael and the tattered remnants of his crew had worked like they’d never worked before.

  With 166 alongside, the crash bags of the living had been ferried across to 166’s sick bay and those of the dead had been transferred to external storage containers for the long ride home. Michael’s heart was sick as his neuronics updated the casualty list as medics worked feverishly to stabilize the injured and get them into regen for the long ride to the base hospital. The toll kept mounting as the casualties from 387’s combat information center were triaged.

  The list was awful; Michael had to struggle to understand the enormity of the disaster that had hit 387.

  Ribot, Armitage, and the rest of the officers except Cosmo Reilly were all gone. Strezlecki, Leong, Carlsson, and Athenascu were gone. Ng was gone. Most of the combat information center crew, gone. Half the galley crew, unlucky enough to be caught at their damage control station in the cross-passage just outside the combat information center, gone. The entire crew of 387’s lander, Jessie’s Hope, gone. Two engineers working on a trivial problem with Weapons Power Charlie’s local AI as it went up, gone. There’d barely been enough of them left to put in a coffee cup.

  Chief Kemble interrupted. “Command, sick bay. We’re done here, sir, and 166 is almost finished with our overflow. I’ve commed you the final casualty list: twenty-eight dead, sixteen seriously injured, but according to the regen AIs, they’ll all be okay, though I’m still a bit worried about Bienefelt and one of Warrant Officer Ng’s team, Petty Officer Gaetano. And twelve walking wounded, you included.”

  “Thanks, chief. Let me know if there’s any change. A bad business.”

  “It is, sir. Didn’t think I’d ever see something as bad as this. One more thing, sir. I know Mother’s given up nagging you, but you really must come down so we can take a look at you. You’re not going to drop dead on us or anything, but you’ve lost a lot of blood despite the best efforts of your suit, and woundfoam’s only good up to a point, especially if you won’t stay still. So, sir! For the last time or I’ll send a team to get you, sick bay now!”

  Michael had to laugh at Kemble’s earnest firmness. “All right, all right. Just give me ten minutes. I need to see how my new XO is doing with the ship repairs, then I’ve got to talk to the skipper of 166, and then I’ll turn myself in. Promise.”

  Kemble grunted. “If you can do all that in ten minutes, fine. If not, I’m coming to get you.”

  “Yes, chief,” Michael said meekly.

  Harris and his team, more 166s than 387s, Michael noted, were hard at it. Emergency generators were pumping white-gray foamsteel to secure the footings of a crude framework of steel crash beams that had been jury-rigged across the huge hole blown out of 387’s hull when Weapons Power Charlie had lost containment. The hole now was jammed with spacers welding steel bracing into place, the brilliant blue-white light from the welding arcs bleaching the color out of their orange suits.

  “How’s it going, chief?”

  Harris waved an arm at the chaos around him. “It may not look like it, sir, but we are getting there. This is the bad one, but Mother’s confirmed that the design of our repair is good even if it looks like something kids dreamed up. She’s happy that the steel crash bracing will hold the foamsteel plug in place. We’ve just got to get it all in there, and that’s a slow process, what with cutting the braces to size and all. The rest aren’t so bad. I never thought I’d have anything good to say about a rail-gun slug, but at least they don’t leave huge holes like this. 166’s XO is down sealing the lander hangar now, and then we’ll do the surveillance drone hangar. Another two hours, tops.”

  “Good. If you need anything, let me know.”

  “Sir.”

  As promised, Michael made it to the sick bay inside Chief Kemble’s deadline after a short comm with Chen. The captain of 166 had sounded relieved to get a finish time for the repairs to 387. Clearly, hanging around in hostile Hammer space was not something he wanted to do any more than Michael did. Cosmo Reilly had cleared 387 to maneuver, the final rail-gun s
lug shaking the main engines up a bit, but nothing that a bit of recalibration couldn’t fix. Even better, Reilly and his team were well on the way to getting the ship jump-capable. With detailed designs for the emergency repairs uploaded to Mother, she should have the new ship mass distribution model completed within the hour. Terranova might be a distant 270 light-years away, but Michael was beginning to allow himself to believe that they’d be dropping in-system inside six days.

  As he looked into the sick bay, the thought of going home almost overwhelmed him, and at that instant he would have given almost anything to be in Anna’s arms, to be home with the people he loved. He’d felt physically sick when he saw that Damishqui had been hit, but thank God, Anna had not been on the casualty list. Please God, get her home safely, he prayed.

  As the sick bay air lock safety lights switched to green, Michael firmly shoved all thoughts of Anna into a distant corner of his mind. Like it or not, he was the skipper of 387, and he had a ship and what was left of 387’s crew to get home safely first.

  The instant he stepped into the sick bay, Chief Kemble and her team were on him like a rash. Michael had been dreading what he might find, so he was pleased to see that the crash bags with the ship’s dead had been moved to the cargo containers for the trip home. The way he felt, it was bad enough just thinking about them. Seeing the physical evidence, seeing a line of crash bags, would have been too much.

  It was the work of only moments for Kemble’s team to strip Michael’s suit off, leaving him standing in a ship suit saturated with a gruesome mix of reddish-black blood and bright green woundfoam. As he looked down at himself, he found it hard believe that he’d lost so much blood. He was drenched in it. But he stood only for a second until the accumulated insult and injury done to his long-suffering body finally overwhelmed him.

  With a tired sigh, Michael’s eyes rolled up into his head, and he crumpled like an empty sack to the deck.