The battle of Devastation reef

and millions of credulous primitives would be calling for his dismissal. That was why Calverson was one of the few people Polk feared. The problem was that Calverson knew it.

After the steward served coffee and left, Polk opened the proceedings. “The briefing note from my chief of staff says you want to discuss the situation on Salvation,” he said with a warmth he did not feel, “but I’m confused, Teacher. It is years since the heretics on Salvation fell from the grace of Kraa. Why are we concerned about them?”

Calverson’s angular face creased with concern. “Because, Chief Councillor,” he said in the tones of a father speaking to a dim-witted son, “those poor souls on Salvation are still of the Faith, and it is our duty to bring them back”-Calverson’s finger stabbed out-“otherwise they cannot enjoy the protection of the Faith of Kraa. They will be damned for all eternity. We owe it to them to bring them back, whether they like it or not.”

What arrant, self-serving nonsense, Polk wanted to say. Wisely, he confined himself to a nod of agreement. “Yes, you are of course quite right, Teacher Calverson. There is no provision in doctrine for apostasy. But, there is the small problem of how we do that. Bring them back, I mean. Salvation is-what? — 170 light-years away? That puts it well inside the Fed sphere of influence. The last time we tried to retrieve the heretics, the … well, let’s just say the operation wasn’t a complete success. In any event, I’m not sure the Worlds are in any position to carry out the operation you’re asking for.”

“Chief Councillor. I am but a humble priest”-with an effort, Polk suppressed a snort of derision-“but I read the strategic assessments provided by your office with great care. Even if they have antimatter weapons, I cannot remember a time when the Federated Worlds found themselves in such trouble, when our strategic advantage was so great. Our attack on Comdur dealt them a blow from which they may never recover. Am I right?” Calverson said.

“Yes, you are, Teacher Calverson,” Polk conceded.

“Excellent, Chief Councillor,” Calverson said, beaming. “So let’s move. We must act while we can. Kraa demands it.”

Polk knew defeat when he saw it, so he gave up. “Yes, Teacher Calverson, I absolutely agree with you on this. Let me talk to Councillor Jones and Admiral Jorge. When the planners have worked out how we can recover Salvation’s heretics, I’ll arrange a briefing for you.”

Calverson’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll expect it a week from today,” he said. “I think that should be enough time, don’t you?”

“Yes, Teacher Calverson,” Polk said through gritted teeth, wondering how he was ever going to justify an attack on a neutral world, never mind the diversion of Fleet assets to pursue something so pointless. For Kraa’s sake! Only a narrow-minded priest would worry about a few heretics in the middle of a shooting war with the Feds.

Wednesday, December 20, 2400, UD

FWSS

Tufayl,

Comdur Fleet Base nearspace

“Tufayl, this is Comdur Command.”

“Tufayl,” Ferreira said.

“For your information, reporting the arrival in Comdur nearspace of heavy lander PHLA- 442566, Junior Lieutenant Sedova in command, inbound from New Dawn. We’ve cleared 566 on a direct vector to you. Confirm ready to take tactical control?”

“Confirmed.”

“Roger. Chopping tacon of PHLA-442566 to Tufayl.”

“Tufayl, roger. Tufayl has tacon of 566, out. Command, copy?” Ferreira said, glancing across at Michael.

“Copied.” Michael nodded, pleased to see that his new lander had made a good start, arriving on time to the second.

“Command, Warfare; 566 is on vector, cleared for direct approach. ETA 15:45.”

“Command, roger,” Michael said. “PHLA-442566, this is Tufayl on vidcomm channel 34, over.”

“Tufayl, 566,” the lander’s command pilot replied, “go ahead.”

“Okay to talk?”

“Yes, sir. We’re established on vector.”

“Good. Welcome to Comdur, 566,” Michael said, looking with interest at the latest addition to his crew, a cheerful-looking woman with an open, friendly face framed by her combat space helmet, a few rebellious strands of ash-blond hair peeking out from underneath the helmet’s molded crash-foam lining.

“Thank you, sir,” she said. “Junior Lieutenant Kat Sedova at your service.”

“Good to have you with us. Flight okay?”

“One for the record books, sir.”

“Oh?”

“Longest pinchspace flight by a vessel less than five hundred tons empty mass,” Sedova said, smiling broadly. “A touch over 16 light-years. We didn’t just break the record, we completely trashed it. The flight was five times longer than any previous flight by a jump-capable lander.”

Michael’s eyebrows shot up. “Congratulations. Impressive.”

“Scary more like it, sir. Bloody scary, in fact, given the Block 6’s less than stellar reputation.”

“Ah, yes. Bit of a gut churner, I would imagine.” Michael did not need to say any more. Sedova would have had good reason to feel nervous. Development of the Block 6 heavy lander had been a long and troubled process, culminating in the loss of the first manned pinchspace test flight. The lander had broken up when it reentered normalspace, killing the crew, a shockingly unexpected accident that drove the lander’s chief designer to suicide. It took another five years and billions of FedMarks before the appallingly complex pinchspace generators squeezed into the lander’s hull to create humanspace’s smallest starship were certified safe to carry humans into pinchspace.

“Must admit it was,” Sedova said. “But the Ghost did really well. The pinchspace generators never blinked. Rocksteady the whole time. No, sir, the Ghost’s a good one.”

“Ah, yes,” Michael said, “I was going to ask. So you’ve christened your ship?”

“I certainly have, sir. Caesar’s Ghost.”

“You spend too much time studying ancient literature, I suspect,” Michael said with a chuckle when his neuronics tracked down where the name came from.

“Something like that, sir.”

“Sounds fine to me, so Caesar’s Ghost it is. At least I won’t have Fleet objecting. Anyway,” Michael continued, “I’ll leave you alone for the moment. We’ll talk more when you’ve berthed.”

“Sir.”

Tufayl’s combat information center was quiet, all eyes focused on the heavy assault lander filling the command holovid. Michael watched intently as Caesar’s Ghost closed in. It was not an attractive sight. In Michael’s opinion, assault landers had to be one of the ugliest machines ever sent into space by humankind. Brutally functional, the lander was a wedge nearly as broad as it was long, with a rounded nose and sliced flat across the stern, its matte-black shape broken by laser and rotary cannon turrets, landing gear, sensors, stub aerials, heat dump panels, and hatches, all strewn seemingly at random across its armored skin. Heavy assault landers were certainly fit for their purpose, but with the aerodynamics of a large ceramcrete block, they were neither elegant nor pretty; the fact that the machine flew at all was a tribute to the enormous power of its twin fusion-powered mass drivers.

But Michael loved them, right down to the last bolt. His only ambition had been to be a lander command pilot.