The battle of Devastation reef

“What’s that, sir?”

“The day you stop trusting me is the day we-you and me-fail. I don’t have another Michael Helfort, and you know as well as I do that we have to make dreadnoughts work. The Faith operation shows me we are just about there, but don’t underestimate the bull-” Jaruzelska stopped herself. “Well, let’s just say you’re not the only one fighting the good fight. You do your bit and let me do mine.”

“Yes, sir,” Michael said, ashamed that he had doubted her, if only for a moment. “I trust you, sir. You must know that.”

“I do. Moving on. It won’t happen again because Rear Admiral Perkins will not be space riding in Tufayl unless I am there, too, something I don’t have the time for.”

“Thank you, sir,” Michael said with some feeling.

“Don’t mention it,” the admiral replied. “One more thing. I’ve finally organized your Block 6 lander. Fleet will advise you exactly when, but it looks like it will arrive later this month.”

Michael perked up. “Ah, that is good news, sir. Places we’re going, it’ll be good to have another way to get home. Attacking that battle station with just the one ship was a lonely business. If things had gone wrong …” Michael’s voice trailed off.

“I know; sorry about that. Pity Elusory lived up to her name. Next time I’ll task two ships for casualty recovery … if I can find the ships to task, that is. By the way, not aborting the operation when Elusory went unserviceable? That was a gutsy call, Michael. Very gutsy.”

Michael nodded. More than you know, Admiral, he said to himself. At the time, he could not shake off the awful thought he might fall back into Hammer hands; only his unshakable faith in Tufayl and her crew had persuaded him to push on without a ship standing by to rescue them if things went wrong.

Jaruzelska broke what had turned into a long silence. “How will you use the lander?”

“Well, sir. Without marines, it’s really there as a backup ship. As for live ops, I’ve been running through the options. The sims have confirmed that my best choice is to deploy the lander to one of the unmanned ships prior to an attack; that way, I can use it for casualty recovery if anything goes wrong with the Tufayl. Diversionary attacks, decoy work, and limited ground assault operations are some of the other things I’m looking at.”

Jaruzelska’s eyebrow shot up. “Ah! Let me guess. If you’re going to send your Block 6 into harm’s way, you’ll be wanting to keep the old lander,” she said, “just in case. Am I right?”

“Of course you are, sir,” Michael replied cheerfully. “To paraphrase an old saying, you never know when a spare lander might come in handy!”

The admiral laughed. “I don’t know a spacer who would argue with that, so I won’t, and I don’t think Fleet will, either. I’ll authorize the change to the master equipment list. Unless there’s anything else … no? Right. I think it’s time for a drink, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

As the shuttle taking Michael back to Tufayl lifted off, Ferreira commed him.

“Yes, Jayla?”

“Com from Fleet, sir. Seems we are going to get our heavy lander at last.”

“Ah, yes. The admiral just gave me a heads-up. When?”

“Twentieth, sir.”

“Good. What about the crew?”

“I’ll com you the personnel files when I get them. The command pilot is a Junior Lieutenant Sedova, Kat Sedova.”

“Know her?”

“Of her, sir.”

“And?”

“All good, sir. Outstanding, in fact. She’ll be a real asset.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“Well, sir. If the admiral had any say in her selection, I’d be pretty sure she’s one of the best.”

“I would, too. See you shortly.”

Tuesday, December 19, 2400, UD

Offices of the Supreme Council for the Preservation of the Faith, McNair

Chief Councillor Polk tilted his chair back, the better to see out of the enormous plasglass window that filled one wall of his office. The view did nothing to lift his mood. It was a miserable day, rain sheeting down, the gardens’ brilliant colors crushed under a gray sky that was darkening with the approach of night. What a difference a few months made, he thought. Back in October, he believed the Kraadamned Feds were finished, he really did.

Now he was not so sure.

He scowled for a moment before an innate faith in himself reasserted itself. Maybe he should not be so pessimistic. Maybe the Feds were history. The armistice was a farce. The Hammers still had the whip hand over the Feds, and if his military was even half-right, it was just a matter of time before the Hammer flogged them back to the negotiating table. Since the Hammer fleet had lifted the operational tempo, the Feds had found themselves in trouble right across their sphere of influence: trade disrupted, citizens close to panic at the threat of mass destruction-the concept of mutually assured destruction did not sit too well with the average Fed-all compounded by hit-and-run attacks on targets of opportunity.

Yes, it had been a good month for the Hammer of Kraa, and the Feds had floundered in responding. They had only one result: the destruction of one of Faith’s battle stations after an attack so reckless that it verged on the suicidal. Polk watched the holovid of the Fed attack; he had never seen anything like it. Admiral Jorge had not been able to explain just how the heavy cruiser-Tufayl, that was its name-had managed to escape; by rights, the ship should have been blown to Kraa. Polk reminded himself to ask the intelligence people who the captain was; whoever it was, he was a brave-albeit terminally stupid-man.

Not that the Tufayl operation mattered; all it showed was just how desperate the Feds were. They would never win the war by throwing heavy cruisers at space battle stations one at a time, though he was happy to see them try. This time, Tufayl and the Feds had been lucky; next time they tried the same stunt, they would not be.

Yes, he decided, suddenly reenergized, he should be more positive, he really should.

His good spirits did not last long, his newfound confidence shattered by the diffident tones of his secretary.

“Chief Councillor. Teacher Calverson is here for his meeting, sir.”

Kraa damn it, Polk raged, he had clean forgotten. As a matter of principle, he avoided Calverson like the plague.

“Please ask him to come in. And send in coffee.”

Sour-faced, he watched the man enter his office, a black-robed specter hung with the thick gold chain and sunburst of the Hammer of Kraa’s highest spiritual office.

“Good day, Teacher Calverson,” Polk said, getting to his feet and going around his desk to shake Calverson’s hand before waving the man to take an armchair, fixing a smile he hoped did not look totally false onto his face.

“Kraa’s peace be with you, Chief Councillor,” Calverson said, sitting down.

“Thank you, Teacher,” Polk said, sitting down, trying not to grind his teeth. Polk despised Calverson; the man was rat-cunning, an intellectual pygmy, his mind clogged with all the superstitious nonsense spewed out of the deranged imagination of the Faith of Kraa’s founder, Peter McNair. As religions went, the whole Hammer of Kraa thing was a crock of shit, yet Calverson was its chief acolyte and a powerful man, the enormous machine that delivered the teachings of Kraa to the people of the Hammer Worlds secure in his iron grip. Polk might despise him, but Calverson could not be ignored.

Polk licked suddenly dry lips. One word from Teacher Calverson and within hours a hundred thousand priests