The battle of Devastation reef

intelligence summaries, Serhati is a covert remassing stop for Hammer ships. So I think we’re in for an interesting time. Set vector for Serhati and let the troops know that’s where we’re headed.”

“Sir.”

Michael ignored a momentary flash of panic: Going to Serhati meant giving the Hammers the best chance they would ever have to get their hands on him. But what choice did he have?

“Anything else of note?” he said.

“No, sir.”

“Roger. I’m going below. Keep a close eye on the Hammers. Let me know when the Stick has finished rescuing pods and gives us a definite rendezvous time.”

“Sir.”

His body saturated with fatigue, Michael dropped down the ladder into the cargo bay. He walked across to where Ferreira sat, head back, her injured arm-liberally decorated with orange leak patches and smeared black and green with dried blood and woundfoam-resting on a convenient power box. “Jayla. How’s the arm?”

“Bloody sore,” she said. “That fucking woundfoam is ten times worse than getting shot in the first place. Don’t care how good it is. Shit, it hurts. My neuronics say the wound’s nothing serious, and anyway, I now have the combat wound stripe I’ve always wanted.”

Michael laughed. “We have about four hours before we pick up Cleft Stick. You ready for a load of uninvited guests?”

“We are, sir,” Ferreira said, a broad grin clearly visible through the plasglass of her helmet’s faceplate. “It will be one hell of a squeeze, but we’ll manage. A five-star establishment this is, and Bienefelt’s agreed to be concierge while I sit around feeling sorry for myself.”

“Can’t see you sitting around, Jayla. Marine Mehraz, how is she? Good work, by the way, getting her out.”

Ferreira’s head bobbed in embarrassment. She waved her good arm in protest. “Shit, sir. Somebody had to do it. Marine Mehraz is safely in one of the regen tanks. She’s in pretty bad shape; her legs took a lot of rounds, and she’s suffering lung damage from explosive decompression of her suit, but the medical AI says she’ll be okay until we get to Serhati.”

“I hope so. As soon as we’re sure the Hammers won’t bother us, I’ll tell Kat to get the lander repressurized.”

“That would be outstanding. I am sick of this crappy space suit, and the medibots want to clean up my arm, though what I really need is a long, hot shower. How good would that be?”

Michael laughed. “Better than good, Jayla. Right, I’ll leave you alone. When I’m done here, I’ll be back on the flight deck if you need me.”

“Sir,” Ferreira said, closing her eyes and slumping back, face pale with shock.

Concerned, Michael patched into the medical AI to make sure Ferreira was better than she looked; it assured him she was, so he turned to study the Ghost’s cargo bay. He nodded his approval. Chief Bienefelt had wasted no time getting the place organized-loose gear stowed, bunks rigged up, fresh clothing broken out, and hot drinks laid out on a side table. He picked a beaker up and plugged it into the drinks port of his suit, grateful for the coffee’s sudden lift, the grinding fatigue easing a touch. He made his way across to where Kallewi and his marines were sprawled out across the deck.

“Hi, sir,” Kallewi said, setting his assault rifle aside and getting to his feet.

“No need to ask the Federated Worlds Marine Corps if things are under control.”

“Sir!” Kallewi protested. “The green machine never sleeps; you should know that.”

“Bloody marines!” Michael snorted. “Full of it.”

“Come on, sir. You need us, and you know it.”

Michael shook his head in mock despair. “Sad but true. Back to business. Jayla tells me that Marine Mehraz should be okay.”

“We think so, sir. The AI says she’s stable.” Kallewi paused for a second. “You know what, sir?” he continued, voice soft.

“Tell me.”

“We were screwed, totally screwed. All our egress routes were blocked. The Hammers had finally gotten their shit together, and there were heavy weapons squads on their way. Another ten minutes and the bastards would have overrun us. We had no chance. So thanks for sending in the cavalry. Wasn’t in the plan, you didn’t need to, and you probably shouldn’t have. But you did. Without them we were dead meat”-Kallewi shook his head-“so tell your exec that she’s welcome in any marine mess, anywhere, anytime. She did well.”

“She sure did.” There was a pause, and Michael reflected on the appalling risks they had all taken that day. “Okay,” he said at last, “need anything?”

“This ship repressurized so we can get out of these space suits, then a hot shower, a clean shipsuit, something to eat, and some serious sack time.”

“You and everyone else,” Michael said, laughing, “and don’t worry. You’ll be sick of your rack by the time we get to Serhati.”

“Sick of my rack? Never happen!”

Michael laughed, not least because he knew what Kallewi had said was true. Making his way back to the flight deck, he was relieved to see that the red icons that had infested the threat plot had been downgraded to a reassuring orange: hostile but no threat. There was no doubting it. Obviously, the Hammers had more on their plate to worry about than a fleeing lander, so he commed Sedova to repressurize the lander.

“Captain, sir, pilot.”

“Yeah, go ahead, Kat.”

“Cleft Stick is on final approach.”

“Roger.”

Comming Ferreira and Bienefelt to join him, Michael stood patiently at the Ghost’s starboard personnel air lock. After an age, a gentle bump ran through the lander, followed by a metallic thunk when the docking interlocks slammed home. Cleft Stick had berthed. Green lights came on over the air lock door, the Ghost’s loadmaster slapped the handle, and the door swung open and up. A short pause followed to allow the outer hatch to open with a tiny swirl of air when the two landers equalized, and there she was, Vice Admiral Jaruzelska in person.

“Attention on deck! Commander, Battle Fleet Lima,” Chief Bienefelt bellowed in her best parade ground fashion.

“Thank you, Captain,” Jaruzelska said, acknowledging Michael’s salute. “Chief Bienefelt, good to know that you’re not allowing standards to slip even though we’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bienefelt said.

“Lieutenant Ferreira.”

“Welcome aboard Caesar’s Ghost, sir.”

“Glad you stayed to give us a lift. What’s with the arm?” Jaruzelska said.

“Flesh wound, sir,” Ferreira replied, lifting a heavily bandaged arm. “I’ll live, which is more than I can say for the Hammer sonofabitch who shot me.”

Jaruzelska laughed. She took Michael by the arm and pulled him clear of the procession of survivors that followed her across from Cleft Stick, their faces tight with fatigue and delayed shock. Michael had never seen such a sorry bunch, the strain of what they had been through etched deep.

“I know I’ve already said this, Michael,” Jaruzelska said, “but I’ll say it again, anyway. I always had faith in dreadnoughts. More to the point, I always had faith in you. You did well. About time we stuck it to those damn Hammers. Something tells me that they are going to miss that antimatter plant of theirs.”

“Thank you, sir,” Michael said. “They sure will. Hammer scum. But, um … there are a few things you need to know. We had a few, er … a few issues along the way.”

Jaruzelska rolled her eyes. “Why is nothing ever easy with you, Lieutenant Helfort? Okay, when you’ve gotten rid of that ludicrously named lander of yours and we’re on our way, I’ll want a full brief. And when I say full,” she said sternly, “I mean every last detail.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well,” Jaruzelska said, “Captain Tuukkanen and I have been through your report in detail, along with the