The battle of Devastation reef

them to test the ability of the Tufayl’s tiny crew to react to and contain the problems deepspace operations might toss at them.

All the time, standing back in the shadows, ship riders from the staff of the flag officer for space training watched everything and missed nothing; at times, their postexercise debriefings verged on the brutal as they dissected the mistakes made by Michael and his team. It was an unforgiving process, not least because any failure by one of Tufayl’s crew was his failure. He might be in command of the most advanced warship ever produced by humans, but some things never changed.

He was glad it was over, happy to know he would soon see the back of the last of the ship riders.

“Command, sensors. Threat plot is confirmed. Plot is green.”

“Command, roger. Warfare, weapons tight. I have command authority.”

“Warfare, roger.”

“All stations, command. Stand down from general quarters. Revert to cruising stations, ship state 3, airtight integrity condition x-ray. Engineering, restore artificial gravity. Jayla, you can stand down. I’ll take the ship in.”

“You sure, sir?” Ferreira asked.

“Yup. Just get those ship riders off my ship the instant we’re in orbit.”

“Yes, sir,” Ferreira replied with a huge grin. “I’ll see to it.”

Michael sat alone in the combat information center, asking himself the same question over and over again: Had Tufayl done well enough? Did she have her precious Operational Readiness Certificate?

“Command, navigation. Confirmed vector is nominal for Comdur parking orbit.”

“Command, roger,” he replied. He triple-checked the navigation AI’s vector calculations. Comdur’s defenses were formidable; they tolerated no mistakes. To stray off vector risked an encounter of the terminal kind: If space mines missed them, autonomous defensive platforms armed with ASSMs and antiship lasers came next. If they did not get them, space battle stations-newly commissioned and nervous after the Hammers wiped out most of their predecessors-would. Michael knew he was justified in keeping a close eye on his navigation AI.

Satisfied all was well, Michael allowed himself to settle back while he watched Tufayl’s painstaking transit through Comdur’s defenses.

“Tufayl, Space Training Control.”

“Space Training Control, Tufayl,” the navigation AI responded.

Now what? Michael wondered.

“Tufayl, Space Training Control. Stand by to receive shuttle with one pax for you. Chop vidcomm channel 36, contact shuttle Mike Romeo 4466.”

Michael overrode the AI. “Space Training Control, Tufayl. Authenticate Kilo Mike Alfa Quebec.” After a week suffering at the hands of vindictive ship riders, Michael did not trust the people who managed the minutiae of space training. Who knew what stunt the bastards might try to pull even at this late stage? He would not put it past them to have packed the shuttle with marines for a last-minute boarding exercise.

“Tufayl, Space Training Control. I authenticate Lima Lima Yankee Golf.”

“Tufayl, roger. Chopping vidcomm 36. Tufayl, out,” Michael acknowledged, relieved that the vidcomm message was genuine and that the shuttle was not some last- minute test of Tufayl’s operational readiness. He and Tufayl had had just about all the shaking down they could take.

He would find out soon enough who was important enough to warrant sending a shuttle all the way out to meet Tufayl. In the meantime, he would do what all prudent captains did when entering Comdur nearspace: make sure his ship’s vector was precisely where it was supposed to be.

Thirty minutes later, a gentle bump announced the arrival of the shuttle. Michael forced air deep into his lungs to control a sudden attack of nerves. The shuttle brought him a visitor he had never wanted to meet. He watched the coxswain pipe the side, the shrill squealing of bosun’s calls greeting the new arrival while he scrambled out of the plasfiber boarding tube.

Michael saluted Rear Admiral Van Perkins, the newly appointed deputy commander of Dreadnought Forces. Perkins-tall, buzz-cut blond hair, florid complexion-snapped to attention to return Michael’s salute.

“Admiral Perkins, sir,” Michael said formally, “welcome aboard.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Perkins replied, piercing blue eyes looking Michael right in the face. “Pleased to be aboard this fine ship.”

Michael smiled politely as they shook hands. The man might outrank him by a country mile, but at least Perkins had not forgotten his manners. “Can I introduce my executive officer, sir? Junior Lieutenant Ferreira.”

Ferreira stepped forward to shake Perkins’s hand. “Welcome to Tufayl, sir. And welcome to dreadnoughts.”

“Lieutenant,” Perkins said.

Michael wondered if anyone else noticed how the man’s mouth tightened at the word dreadnoughts.

“Shall we go, sir?” Michael said. “I should get back to the CIC.”

“By all means. Lead on, Captain.”

Setting off, Michael shoved the admiral out of his mind. Only a fool took Comdur’s defenses for granted, and no admiral in humanspace would distract him from getting Tufayl safely inside them.

An awkward silence followed while the pair made their way down to Tufayl’s combat information center. Michael did not care. Once back in the command seat, he kept his eyes on the command holovid, much more concerned to keep an eye on Tufayl’s transit through Comdur’s defenses.

“Captain,” Perkins said. “I see you are on vector, so may we go to your cabin? I would like to debrief you on your shakedown week.”

Michael was on the point of agreeing, when something in Perkins’s eyes stopped him. Shit, he said to himself. Was this a test? “Happy to, sir, but would you mind if we dropped into parking orbit first?”

“Not at all,” Perkins responded, seemingly oblivious to the fact that a mere lieutenant had just refused an admiral’s request. “I’ll be staying with you, so that’s fine.”

“Thank you, sir. Appreciate that,” Michael said gratefully.

“Can I get you a drink, Admiral?”

“A beer, thanks.”

Michael waited until the drinkbot handed Perkins his drink before speaking. “Well, sir,” he said, “once again, welcome to dreadnoughts.”

Perkins nodded. “Thank you. The Flag Officer, Space Training”-Michael’s heart skipped a beat; had they found some fatal flaw in Tufayl’s performance? Was that why Perkins had shown up so unexpectedly? — “asked me to pass on his congratulations. Not the best week they’ve ever seen at space training, but pretty good considering how few spacers”-he waved a dismissive hand around Michael’s day cabin-“these things carry. You’ll get your Operational Readiness Certificate tomorrow. Oh, yes. Admiral Jaruzelska asked me to say well done.”

Michael slumped back in his chair, the relief washing through him. “Thank you, sir,” he said, “thank you very much.” Fatigue did not allow him to say much more. All he wanted was for Perkins to drink up and leave. When the man did, he could turn in. He needed to catch up on a week’s lost sleep-badly.

It took Michael a while to get rid of Perkins, but at long last the admiral was piped over the side for the shuttle transfer back dirtside. It had been an interesting session, and not in a good way.

Perkins’s message was pretty simple, even if cloaked in enough euphemism, equivocation, understatement, and ambiguity to give the man all the wiggle room he would need if Jaruzelska found out what he was saying. Perkins’s message was nearly subliminal, to a point where Michael struggled to work out what the message actually was. But despite having little sleep for a week, he did work it out in the end, and when he did, it shocked him.

Perkins did all the talking: The dreadnought concept was dangerous, it did serious damage to the Fleet, and it risked the long-term security of the Federated Worlds. Michael’s job was to stay in line and follow orders. Under no circumstances was he to offer the dreadnoughts any support or encouragement. Once the dreadnought heresy was consigned to the trash can of history, Perkins would see to it personally that Michael received the recognition an