The battle of Devastation reef

Reckless’s engineers huddled around an access hole out of which stuck a pair of legs. A quick check of the main propulsion system schematics told him that the panel accessed trunking-a white plasfiber pipe fully two meters in diameter-protecting superconducting high-voltage feeds from the fusion plant to the mass driver at the heart of the port main engine.

“Chief Chua. What’s up?”

“Nothing serious, sir.”

Michael nodded; he already knew that. If there had been a problem, the AI controlling the ship’s primary power systems would have told him already.

“We’re seeing some instability in the power levels that shouldn’t be there, and we’re just having a look at the system to make sure it’s not part of a bigger problem waiting to happen.”

“Okay,” Michael said. Not for the first time, he offered up a small prayer of thanks that he had engineers like Chua. More than a few he knew would have waited until the problem turned serious before doing anything about it. “Any luck?”

“Think so. Petty Officer Lim”-Chua waved a hand at the legs sticking out of the access hole-“says it’s a power controller problem. She’s just checking it, and if she’s not happy with it, we’ll tear it out and replace it.”

“And we have a spare?”

“What sort of question is that, sir? Of course we have.”

The three engineers laughed. Michael knew why. Fleet, in all its wisdom, had done its best to reduce the dreadnoughts’ inventory of spares to zero, arguing that there were not enough engineers to use them, so why bother carrying all that unnecessary mass? Michael’s response to that argument was short and unprintable but, after editorial input from Jaruzelska, sufficiently convincing to make Fleet change its mind. Thankfully.

“Good. I’d hate not having both engines when the Hammers are breathing down our necks.”

“Fucking Hammers,” Chief Fodor said. “Shit, I hope we kick their asses.”

“We will, chief, we will,” Michael said with confidence he did not feel. “How’re your fusion plants?”

“Sweet as nuts, sir, both of them. They’ll not let you down.”

“Good. Now. Petty Officer Morozov,” he said, turning to the senior spacer standing alongside Chua, “let me see … yes, ship’s air smells good, it’s at the right temperature, oxygen levels are where they should be, trace contaminants are within limits, we have no rogue bacteria roaming around, airborne viral load is zero, the food tastes great, the water’s clean, hot and cold haven’t gotten mixed up, the recyclers are functioning normally, and let me think … what else? Oh, yes, I almost forgot. My crapper seems to be working properly at last, so am I right to assume that the habitat department is in good shape?”

“You said it, sir,” Tammy Morozov said, a faint blush of embarrassment spreading across her cheeks. “Er, really sorry about your crapper, sir. The yard took out a vacuum pump they shouldn’t have.”

“You know what, Petty Officer Morozov?”

“What, sir?”

“I believe you,” Michael said, all sincerity, “I really, really do. And on that happy note, I’ll leave you all.”

“Sir,” Morozov mumbled over a soft chorus of chuckles from her fellow engineers.

Michael walked forward along the catwalk, passing through the upper access doors to reenter the central part of the ship on 2 Deck. According to Mother, the coxswain and the rest of the Reckless’s spacers-all three of them-were up forward in the final stages of checking the missile magazines to make sure that they were in as good a shape as the ship’s missile AI claimed. Michael took the forward drop tube down to the hangar deck level, making his way forward to yet another massive armored bulkhead, through its double doors, and into the missile magazine lobby.

Bienefelt was inside the starboard lower missile magazine with Carmellini, Faris, and Lomidze, busy with running diagnostic routines on each missile in turn. As this magazine alone held more than six hundred missiles, it was a big job. Michael took a set of magazine coveralls from a locker and, with a final check to make sure he carried no prohibited items, stepped through the double blastproof doors and into the magazine.

The place nearly took his breath away; it always did. Racks holding the matte black shapes of Merlin antistarship missiles packed the magazine, the air rich with the telltale smell of the hydraulics that rammed missiles out of their stowages and into the salvo room, ready for launch. For Michael, this place with its mix of power and menace was what Reckless was all about.

“How’s it going, ’Swain?”

Bienefelt stepped back from the missile she was checking. “Getting there, sir. This is the last magazine.”

“Any duds in this lot?” Michael waved a hand at the racks of missiles.

“Three so far, but none that we didn’t already know about. Looks like the missile AI might have its shit together for once.”

Michael nodded. He could live with that. “Makes a change,” he said. “The other magazines?”

“Seven duds, all known.”

“Okay. How are my sensors, Carmellini?”

“All nominal, sir. Before the coxswain hijacked us-”

“Watch it, spacer,” Bienefelt growled, mock serious.

“Sorry, ’Swain,” Carmellini said, not looking sorry at all as Faris stifled a laugh. “All good, sir.”

“Weapon systems?”

Leading Spacer Jenna Lomidze nodded at the missiles racked around her. “Apart from a few dud Merlins and number 7 chain-gun battery-the yardies are going to have to fix that-all weapons systems are online. We’re good to go, sir.”

“And finally, comms. Faris?”

“One hundred percent, sir.”

“Good. Word in your ear, ’Swain.”

Bienefelt followed Michael out of the magazine back into the lobby. “Anything I need to know, Matti?” he asked while he stripped off his coveralls.

“No, sir. Reckless is as ready as she can be. Troops are in good shape. Nervous as hell, most of them. Shit! I am, too, but they’ll be fine.”

“Carmellini?”

“He’s solid. Shitting himself, of course, but I think he’ll be okay.”

“Good. Last I heard, we should be jumping on schedule.”

“Thanks for that, Skipper. I am sick of waiting.”

“Me, too. It’ll be rough, Matti. You know that?”

“With you in command, sir, what else would it be?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Michael said with a laugh. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”

“Not much chance of that.”

“We’ll see. I’d better leave you to it. I’ll be in the CIC.”

“Righto, sir.”

“How we doing?” Michael asked Ferreira when he slipped back into his seat.

“Iron Sword managed to get herself rammed by one of the drones, but there was no damage done.”

“Take more than a remassing drone to dent a cruiser’s armor.”

“It would, sir. Flag has confirmed we will jump on schedule.”

“Good.” Michael resisted the temptation to go through Opera’s time line again. He had done that so many times, he knew what was supposed to happen to the second. He was glad he had done the walk-around. For all the sophistication of AI-managed information systems, for all the power of avatar software, for all the convenience of virtual meetings, there was nothing quite like seeing things for oneself. He knew captains who relied on all those things to run their ships, spending their tours of duty confined to their cabins and the combat information center.

But he was not one of those captains.

At one level, the walk through the ship told him nothing he did not already know, nothing one of the AIs had not told him already. If it had, he would have been worried. But at another level, he learned a lot, and it was all to do with the spacers and marines who would go into battle alongside him. Even if he had not been able to speak to