Selvaraj’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “And if the admiral formally approved it, would that make any difference?”
Michael shook his head. “No, sir, none at all. I am what I am. So long as there’s one Hammer left standing, I belong in the Fleet. I belong in command of a Federated Worlds warship. You may not like me, sir-and frankly, I don’t care whether you do or you don’t-but my record has to speak for itself. To those who will listen,” he added bitterly.
Selvaraj peered at Michael for a moment. “Well,” he said, “seems we might have underestimated you, Helfort. Okay, I cannot force any officer with your record to resign, but be under no illusions. You are a liability. Where you go, death and destruction follow. No”-Selvaraj’s hands went up to forestall Michael’s protest-“to be fair, that’s not your fault; it’s just the way things have worked out. The problem is that it’s personal. Here. Let me com you an intelligence report we received two days ago. Perhaps you’ll judge us less harshly when you’ve read it.”
Michael read the report carefully. When he finished, his face was grim. He stared at Selvaraj. “The bastards,” he said. “What can I say? So the Hammers want me dead, their chief councillor, the top dog himself, wants me dead. Shit, sir. The Hammers want all of us dead.” He shook his head. “I don’t think it changes anything.”
“Maybe not, but it still leaves me with a problem. Where I post you becomes a high-priority target for the Hammers just because you’re there. Whether you like it or not, that is something Fleet has to consider.”
“Fair enough, sir. So what’s next? You must have known I’d turn down the offer to resign.”
“I must admit we suspected you would,” Selvaraj said with a brief smile. “So here’s the deal, and”-his voice hardened-“it’s the only offer you’re going to get that puts you back in command … if you accept: captain in command of Redwood.”
“Redwood?” Michael said, unsure what the man actually meant.
“I said that, didn’t I?” Selvaraj said testily.
“Yes, sir, you did. Sorry. But Redwood? She’s one of the reserve dreadnoughts. I understood Fleet was scrapping them.”
“It should, but it can’t. Too many missions for too few ships with too few spacers. It’ll be the last dreadnought, but so long as it’s operational, it will be in our order of battle. Fleet is also giving you Red River and Redress. They’ll constitute Dreadnought Squadron Four. They are the last of the dreadnoughts, I’m happy to say, so do not waste them.”
“Fine, sir,” Michael said, ignoring Selvaraj’s sarcasm, his mood lifting from knowing he would be back in command, and not of one dreadnought but three. “Redwood and Dreadnought Squadron Four it is, sir. I accept.”
“Good,” Selvaraj said, tight-lipped. “So noted … right, that’s official. Let me wish you luck in Redwood. Nyleth-B needs you.”
You bastard, Michael said to himself. He had not spotted the trap until too late; he swore under his breath when it slammed shut, with Selvaraj’s sly smile of satisfaction widening into a broad grin. Michael swore some more. Nyleth-B sat about as far from the front line as one could get, so far that even the Hammers would have trouble getting to him. But so be it, he decided, so be it. If that was the best offer he was going to get, it would be up to him to make something of it.
“Can’t wait, sir,” he said.
“I’m sure,” Selvaraj snapped. “One more thing. The crew of Reckless has been posted en bloc to Redwood. Something to do with not having to train a new crew from scratch, and that includes marines. Because of Nyleth-B’s remoteness, Fleet is augmenting your marine detachment with a second platoon.” Selvaraj shook his head. “Who knows why, but Ferreira, Sedova, and Kallewi have all accepted the posting without complaint, and so have the rest of the crew. The additional marines didn’t get a choice.”
Michael did not know what to say, so he said nothing.
“You can go,” Selvaraj said, waving Michael away. “I’ll get your orders posting you to Redwood in command. Orders establishing the Fourth will be promulgated when Fleet gets around to it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Michael said, deadpan. “Much appreciated.”
Selvaraj’s eyes narrowed. “Get out of my office, Helfort, before I kick you out.”
Michael was confused. Selvaraj might be an A-grade jerk, but at least the man had given him a command. Not just any old command, either, but a dreadnought squadron command. And he was going back into space with the team from Reckless, Kallewi and his marines included. All that was better than good, but the more he studied it, the less attractive the deal appeared.
What worried him were the things Selvaraj had not said. Why had he been sidelined? Why the posting to Nyleth-B? It had to be the least challenging command in all of Federation space. He did not like it one bit. He wanted to be in the thick of it, somewhere he could make a difference, somewhere he could play a part in bringing Anna home, somewhere he could help to bring the goddamn Hammers to account.
With the elation engendered by the prospect of another dreadnought command evaporating fast, he set off toward Fleet operations. He needed to know a lot more about Nyleth-B.
Friday, June 15, 2401, UD
President’s House, Foundation, Terranova
The final bars of the Federated Worlds’ national anthem faded away across the crowded lawn in front of the President’s House.
Spacers and marines in dress uniform stood at ease, and the diminutive white-haired woman holding the Federated Worlds’ highest office stepped forward to stand behind a simple wooden lectern.
For a moment she said nothing, looking left and then right at the two stands where families and friends were taking their seats after the formality of the Presidential Salute. She turned back to look at Michael and the rest of the spacers and marines from the dreadnoughts Reckless, Retrieve, and Recognizance standing ranged on the lawn in front of the low dais.
“Good morning, everyone, and welcome to the President’s House. Or should I say, given how long I’ve been here, my house?”
Michael chuckled as laughter bubbled up from the crowd. Diouf was the longest serving of the Federation’s many presidents; Michael reckoned she was so popular, she could make a crowd of hungover alcoholics laugh.
“In the past,” she said, “I have been accused of making long-winded speeches, and yes, I will admit I have been guilty of that”-more laughter-“but not today, you will all be pleased to hear. That’s because today is not about me nor is it about the office of president. It is about the men and women standing in front of me. And I do not need to say much, because what needs to be said takes just a few sentences.
“These are desperate times, and in desperate times, it is to spacers and marines that we turn. All too often, they die to protect us. They die far from home, with pain and fear their only companions. They die unseen and unheard by the people for whom they give their lives.”
Diouf paused for a moment.
“By honoring those here, we honor the memories of those who could not be here, those who have fallen in battle to preserve the Federation. I ask you all to stand for a moment in silence while we remember them.”
Not a word was said as the crowd stood, the quiet absolute. Michael glanced across at his parents. Both stood unmoving. Both stared into the distance as if searching for all the shipmates they had lost in their years of service, tears falling in sun-silvered lines down their cheeks. They rarely talked about their time in the Fleet, but Michael knew their long years of combat during the Third Hammer War had scarred them both deeply.
“Thank you all,” the president said. “Please be seated. We now come to the day’s business: presentation of medals to the spacers and marines of the Federated Worlds Starships Reckless, Retrieve, and Recognizance. These medals recognize their service during Operation Opera, a service directed by the captain in command of the Reckless in a manner consistent with the finest traditions of Space Fleet.”
Michael had trouble believing what he had just
heard. But he had not misunderstood President Diouf’s intentions; her eyes had locked onto his as she spoke. She had crossed a line, and she had done it to tell the Federated Worlds that she was on his side.
Diouf turned to her aide-de-camp, his aiguillettes shimmering gold in the morning sun. “Colonel Kashvili?”
“Thank you, ma’am,” the marine said. “Lieutenant Michael Wallace Helfort, Federated Worlds Space Fleet.”
Michael marched briskly out to stand at attention in front of the president, his salute acknowledged with a broad smile and a quick nod of the head.
“For extraordinary leadership when in command of the Federated Worlds Warships Tufayl and Reckless, award of the Federation Command Star,” Kashvili said. “For extraordinary leadership and bravery in the face of the enemy in the line of duty without regard to person throughout Operation Opera and the Battle of Devastation Reef, award of the Federation Starburst on Gold.”
Taking the Federation Command Star from an aide, Diouf pinned it on Michael’s left breast. The Federation Starburst was next; Diouf placed the extravagant silver spray set against a gold background on its indigo ribbon around Michael’s neck.
“Congratulations, Michael,” the president said warmly. “You deserve these. You’ve done well.”
“Lucky, I guess, ma’am.”
“Not sure about that. But you hang in there. We need to finish this war.”
“Can’t come too soon, ma’am.”
“No, it can’t. You be careful out there.”
“I will, ma’am.”
Michael took a step back, saluted, and marched back to his place in front of the crew of the Reckless. Standing at ease, Michael resigned himself to what was sure to be a long wait: President Diouf had a lot of medals to hand out that morning.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. That concludes the medal ceremony this morning. The president invites you all to join her in the function room behind the dais. Light refreshments will be served.”
The ceremony dissolved into near chaos; Michael pushed his way through the milling throng of spacers and marines to where his parents stood, two small islands of dress black in a sea of civilian color.
“Mom,” he said when she folded him tightly into her arms, the scent of green-tea perfume, her favorite, triggering a surge of emotion, the feeling of security and warmth overwhelming. The embrace lasted a long time.
“Hey, hey, hey, you two,” Michael’s father protested, “I’m here, too, you know.”
“Sorry, Dad,” Michael said, repeating the process.
“How’re things?” his father said, breaking what was more bear hug than embrace.
Michael shook his head. “You know. The usual. The trashpress is still on my back.”
“I’ve stopped watching,” his father said, the bitterness obvious.
“Me, too. I let Mitesh watch for me.”
“Considering he’s a figment of an AI’s imagination, he’s a gem.”
“He is,” Michael said, “and worth every FedMark of your hard-earned money.”
Michael’s mother winced. “Do not remind us. Nothing but the best, your father said, even though it cost me a year’s salary.”
“You exaggerate, Mom. I know how much commodores were paid in your day.”
“Yeah, well,” his mother conceded, “but it was worth it. Mitesh got you a big win over that nasty piece of work at World News … what was his name?”
“Pantini, Giorgio Pantini. Yeah, Mitesh and the lawyers did one hell of a job on him. I don’t think he’ll be getting his bonus this year. Or next. He’s just cost World News a fortune, and it’s made the rest of them ease up a bit.”
“Have they paid the damages?”
“No, not yet. It’s in escrow while they appeal, but Mitesh and the legal AI say they have no chance.”
“What will you do with the money?”
“Me?” Michael said fiercely. “Nothing. I don’t want their filthy money. I’ve told Mitesh it’s to go straight to the Spacers’ and Marines’ Welfare Fund, every last grubby Fed-Mark of it. Hell, the fund needs all the help it can get after Comdur. Come, let’s go inside. I need caffeine.”
A welcome coffee in hand, Michael checked out the rest of the gathering. Bearing down on them was a tall, silver-haired marine colonel. “Incoming,” Michael said. “The president’s aide-de-camp is heading this way, so I’m guessing the president herself is not far behind.”
She was. “Commodore Helfort,” President Diouf said, shaking Michael’s mother’s hand and then his father’s. “Captain Helfort. Glad you were able to make it.”
“Would not have missed it, ma’am,” Andrew Helfort said. “I keep telling the boy to take it easy, but I don’t think he listens to me anymore. Thankless task, fatherhood.”
“Children! I know what you mean,” the president said with a theatrical roll of her eyes. “You both know Colonel Kashvili?”
“Certainly do, ma’am,” Kerri Helfort said, shaking the marine’s hand. “Let me see … yes, you were in Cordwainer, I think, the marine detachment commander?”
“I was, Commodore Helfort,” Kashvili said, “a long time ago. Andrew, how are you? Last bumped into you when we were cleaning out pirates around Damnation’s Gate.”
“That’s right. The early?70s, I think.”
“Excuse me for a moment,” the president said, taking Michael’s arm. “I want to talk to the junior member of the Helfort military dynasty.”
“Be our guest, ma’am,” Kerri Helfort said. “Please try and persuade him to be more careful.”
“I will,” the president said, taking Michael to one side. “So, Michael. I wanted to ask about Anna Cheung.”
Michael’s face must have betrayed his shock. “Come on, Michael,” Diouf said, “I am the president, you know, and that means I am well informed.”
“Er, yes, ma’am,” Michael said, embarrassed that the head of the Federated Worlds and its billions of citizens saw fit to talk to him about his girlfriend. “You are. Very.”
“Well, how is she?”
“So far as I know, pretty good, ma’am. Received a few vidmails from her so far. She’s tough, so she’ll be fine. I just wish … ” Michael’s voice trailed off.
“I know,” Diouf said. “I hate the idea of our people rotting in the Hammers’ hands. You know better than most what they can be like.”
“I do, though to be fair, Hammer spacers are basically okay. They tend to follow the rules of war. It’s DocSec you have to worry about. They don’t follow any rules at all. I’d be much more worried if she was in their hands.”
“I’ve met the Hammer’s new defense force chief, Admiral Belasz,” Diouf said. “Apparently they’ve just shot his predecessor, something they like to do when things go wrong. Jorge, I think his name was. Sorry, Michael, I digress. Anyway, I met Belasz, a few years ago at some function or other, but I remember him quite well. For a Hammer, he’s a decent man. When you are talking about Hammers, I realize that’s not saying much, but we understand he is very firm when it comes to treating prisoners of war properly.”
“Unlike his boss.”
“Chief Councillor Polk. There’s a truly evil man,” Diouf said with a grimace of distaste. “Listen, Michael. Colonel Kashvili’s nagging me to go to my next engagement, so I’ll be quick. What I’m about to tell you is sensitive, and I’m pretty sure I should not be telling you, so I’m going to block it, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Michael said, utterly mystified while he enabled Diouf’s neuronics block.
“Good … right, that’s done. I just wanted you to know that we’re not sitting around waiting for the Hammers to hand back our people. I’m leaning hard on the government to work with the Red Cross to arrange a prisoner exchange with the Hammers.”
Michael’s face must have betrayed his elation. Diouf placed her hand on his arm. “Michael, a word of caution. It’s early days, and the Hammers are the most unreasonable people in humanspace. You know that. So it may well
not come to anything.”
“I understand, ma’am. It’s just good to know that we’re trying.”
“We are, and I’m hopeful the Red Cross can organize it. There’ll be an announcement if we make any progress, so be patient. Very patient; it’s going to take a long time if it ever happens at all. Okay?”
“Yes, ma’am. And thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s a million miles from a done deal, and knowing the Hammers, there is a good chance it may never happen. I just wanted you to know we’re trying.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
“Right. Yes, yes, Colonel,” Diouf said to her aide-to-camp. “I’m coming, Good luck, Michael.” And with that she left, leaving Michael to wonder how so much charisma ended up packed into so small a frame. It was no wonder she had been reelected so many times. He would be voting for her every time she cared to run.
“What was that all about?” Andrew Helfort said.
“Can’t say, sorry.”
Michael’s father stared at him, eyes narrowed, a look of shrewd appraisal on his face. “You look happier, so I think I can guess. No, no, I won’t,” he said in response to Michael’s look of alarm. “We want to meet your executive officer. She sounds like a real gem and a brave one to boot.”
“Jayla? She’s a star.” Michael glanced across the crowd to where Ferreira stood. “I think she’s over there with the Fleet’s largest coxswain.”
Andrew Helfort laughed. “Let me guess … Chief Petty Officer Bienefelt?”
“The same,” Michael said.
“I remember her dad, though I only met him once. He was a hard man to miss. Like a small mountain on legs.”
Michael rolled his eyes, wondering if there was anyone in Fleet his parents did not know. “Come on, follow me,” he said wearily.
Sunday, June 17, 2401, UD
The Palisades
Beer in hand, feet up, Michael sat in the warmth of the late-afternoon sun, the only sound the comforting buzz of one of the security drones that watched over him day and night. The last thing he had wanted was leave, but Fleet had been emphatic, so here he sat, alone, slowly getting drunk and trying not to think about all the promises he had made, promises that a posting as captain in command of Redwood rendered nearly impossible to keep. What difference could he make, tucked away in orbit around Nyleth-B? Goddamnit, what a waste of three good dreadnoughts.
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