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.
“Yes,” Anna chipped in. “I’ve told you before. You think too much.”
“Oh, right,” Michael said sheepishly. “What was the question?”
“Your next posting, silly. What do you think, O great hero of the Federated Worlds, holder of the-”
“Anna!” Michael protested. “Stop it. You know that sort of-”
“Yeah, yeah, hero boy!” Anna said in mock umbrage, eyes sparkling as she cut him off. “Answer the damn question.”
Michael sighed. He’d fallen for it again. She loved teasing him. You’re too serious, she’d always say in her own defense. Not that he didn’t have a sense of humor. He did. But he knew he took things too much at face value sometimes, and that of course made him much too soft a target for her to resist. Like now, he thought, as he mouthed a silent “You’ll pay for that” across the table at her before continuing. She just stuck her tougue out.
“Ah! My next ship. Yes. Well, that’s a good one,” Michael said thoughtfully. “I must say I do like the idea of a big ship after the beating the Hammers gave poor old 387. Don’t want that again. And the Haiyan’s as big as they get. Well, for ships of the line, that is. So I think it’ll be good. Boring program, though. Independent patrols, that sort of thing.”
“You won’t know what to do with yourself,” Anna said teasingly. “From captain in command to…What was the billet again? Do you know, it’s so insignificant that I can’t even remember what it is you’re being posted to do!”
“Pig,” Michael said mildly, refusing the bait this time. “Assistant warfare officer in training, as you very well know, Anna Cheung. Responsible for all sorts of important stuff like, er, um, well, warfare training, I suppose, mostly doing op scenarios for sims probably,” he finished lamely.
Anna was right; he was going to an insignificant billet.
“Sounds sooooo impressive,” Sam said, pulling a face that said just the opposite.
“Yeah, yeah, smart-ass,” Michael replied. “The most minor of minor jobs, and well you know it. Mind you,” he added, “not that I care. Something well out of the limelight, tucked away in a big fat heavy cruiser, will suit me just fine.”
“And me, too,” said his mother with considerable feeling.
As Sam hijacked the conversation for the tenth time that evening, Michael glanced sharply across at his mother. Thanks to a very long conversation earlier in the day, he knew exactly what she’d meant by that remark. His new captain, Svetlana Constanza, was the first of her worries. Not the best, was all she’d say when challenged by Michael, whose heart had sunk when she’d let slip the fact that Constanza was a member of the d’Castreaux clan. But her bigger concern, and one Michael shared, was the Hammers. They’d talked long and hard about the prospects for peace before both agreeing that really, there weren’t any. And that meant war. Hard to say when, but Michael could see that deep inside his mother, gnawing away at her happiness, was the absolutely unshakable conviction that war between the Federation and the Hammers was inevitable.
That was, of course, why she’d admitted that she’d been happy to see him posted to the relative safety of a heavy cruiser; if things degenerated into a shooting match, it was the best and safest place for him to be. Of course she’d denied furiously Michael’s half-spoken charge that she had arranged the posting through her still very active network of Fleet contacts, a denial Michael was still not sure he believed. Not that he cared. After all he’d been through, the relative obscurity of an assistant warfare officer’s position in Haiyan suited him down to the ground. He’d keep his head down and do what he was told, avoiding whenever possible anything remotely smacking of risk or responsibility.
In the end, Michael had told her that even though she might be a retired Space Fleet commodore, she was fussing too much and
he’d be fine. Yes, there might be another fight with the Hammers, but it would end the way all the others had. Only this time, he agreed with her, the Federation would have to pursue the Hammer until it was utterly destroyed, a goal he was entirely happy to pursue.
As Sam went up a gear, Michael sat back again, content to let the conversation wash over him, content to watch Anna, the nanocrystal lights tattooed onto her high cheekbones sparkling white and red-gold against honey-dark skin, her face seemingly flecked with the dust of thousands of tiny jewels shimmering in the light of the log fire. He could only do his best. If Fleet and an uncaring cosmos conspired to break them apart, then so be it. He supposed he’d just have to get over it or die trying.
Anyway, he chided himself, enough of the introspection. Tomorrow he and Anna were off to the Atalantan Mountains. There Space Fleet and all it implied for their futures could be forgotten.
For a few days at least.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-254242-d99c-7546-7484-1c97-0325-457807
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 18.09.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.69, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
Graham Sharp Paul
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The battle at the Moons of Hell hw-1 Page 40
