The battle of Devastation reef

Jaruzelska waved Michael into a seat in front of her desk. She stared at him for a long time before speaking.

“Been a bad week, Michael,” she said at last.

“You might say that, sir.”

“Ridden you pretty hard, haven’t we?’

Michael nodded. “Yes, sir, you have,” he said, unable to conceal a sudden bitterness.

“Well, I think it’s time for me to own up.”

“Own up? I don’t underst-”

Jaruzelska’s hand went up, cutting him off. “You weren’t supposed to. You see, Michael, the point of this week was to see just what one of the best tactical brains in Fleet was capable of unaided. And you showed us. Quite understandably, you saw this week’s sims as just one failure after another, and it’s true. They were. But we saw the week differently. For us, the sims shone the spotlight on the things we need to do to make dreadnoughts work.”

Jaruzelska paused; she studied him thoughtfully. “So let me ask you something, Michael,” she continued. “There are thousands of lieutenants in Space Fleet. Know how many come even close to you?”

Michael shook his head. What a dumb question. After one of the worst weeks of his life, probably most.

Jaruzelska half smiled. “None that I know of,” she said, “none. You are one of the few spacers I’ve ever met who can hold an entire engagement in his head. All those ships, not to mention missiles, rail-gun swarms, decoys, and all the rest.” She shook her head. “We don’t know how you do it, Michael, but you do. Problem is, there’s no point in watching you do well, there’s no point designing tactical exercises we know you can cope with. Success doesn’t teach us squat. What does teach us something is failure, watching you make a complete dog’s breakfast of things. Thanks to you, we know how to help you become the best damn squadron commander this side of deepspace.”

“Shit, sir! You might have told me!” Michael said, his face twisted into a grimace of pained frustration. “Oh, sorry, sir.” In his limited experience, admirals-even the good ones-did not appreciate overly familiar junior officers.

Jaruzelska let it pass. She nodded indulgently. “Don’t worry about it, son. Would not have worked if we’d told you. Anyway, I have some good news for you. The first thing is to give you what every cruiser captain has sitting alongside him.”

“Operations and threat assessment officers?” Michael replied, looking doubtful. “Far as I know, warfare officers are thin on the ground after Comdur, so where will we find them?”

“We don’t.” Jaruzelska smiled broadly. “We’re bringing two cruiser AIs out of retirement to do the job. What you have been missing, Michael, is not AIs to make decisions; I know you’ve got plenty of those, and I’ve never met an AI that’s not ready, willing, and able to make decisions … never mind whether they’re right or wrong. No, what you’ve needed is the advice and support the two senior warfare officers sitting alongside their captain have always provided. Problem is you can’t have people. So instead of real live spacers, you’ll have two AIs. Proven ones, ones with a lot of combat experience. They’ll never be as good as real people, but they’ll be one hell of a lot better than two empty chairs.”

Michael considered the idea for a while; he nodded slowly. “Sounds good, Admiral. Hope it works.”

“We think it will. In fact, I’m kicking myself we did not pick it earlier. Anyway, we’ll find out.”

“Can’t wait, sir,” Michael said with a conspicuous lack of enthusiasm at the idea of spending more time in the simulators.

“Cheer up, my boy. It’ll work. Right, moving on,” she said, her voice brisk. “I’m giving you a week’s leave. I suggest you go see a certain junior lieutenant I know you’re fond of. Personnel will have your travel authority. Okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Michael said, looking much happier, the prospect of seeing Anna Cheung again bringing a touch of color to his cheeks, even if the chance of the two of them meeting up stayed the same as always: pretty close to nil. “Thanks.”

“Ah, yes. One more thing. Tufayl. Fleet had scheduled her handover for October 2. But Commander Watanabe tells me that we can take her out of the yard’s hands early. So, Lieutenant Helfort, it’s dress blacks for you. Commissioning ceremony, 09:00, Thursday 21st. Okay?”

Michael gulped. He had been so sure that Jaruzelska was about to sack him. “Yes, sir. So does that mean I’m still-”

“Still captain in command? Well, let me see,” she said, eyes dancing mischievously. “I talked with Surgeon Captain Indra last night.”

“You did, sir?” Michael tried not to sound too hopeful.

“I did. You’ve been making good progress, so she’s re-graded you P-2. Provided you continue to improve, she intends to grade you P-1, so I don’t think there’s much doubt that you will be fit for active service.”

“Jeez, sir. Thanks. I can’t tell you what …” Michael ground to a halt, unable to speak.

Jaruzelska shook her head. “You don’t have to. Now go. I’ll see you Monday week. You know what? I think we might get you straight back into the sims.”

Michael smiled ruefully. “You don’t say, sir. I’ll look forward to that.”

“You should,” Jaruzelska said with unexpected intensity, “you should. Because I think we’re close to making dreadnoughts perform the way we want them to. So enjoy your leave. You’ll see some changes by the time you get back. So go. I’ve work to do.”

“Sir,” Michael said as he left, already writing the vidmail to Anna to tell her to pull every string she could pull to organize some leave. More in hope than expectation, he fired the vidmail off. He had checked Damishqui’s tasking, and things did not look at all promising. The armistice between Feds and Hammers might be holding, but there were always more missions to perform than ships to perform them, so Anna’s ship, like every ship in the Fleet, was kept busy.

But maybe the Fates would work for him, just this once.

Saturday, September 9, 2400, UD

The Palisades, Ashakiran planet

Utterly content, Michael sat alone on the deck of the Palisades, the family’s weekender high in the western foothills of the Tien Shan Mountains. The house provided the perfect place to sit and pretend-for a few precious minutes-that the rest of humanspace with all its cruel stupidities did not exist. Beer in hand, Michael gazed out across the valley of the Clearwater River, the ground far below invisible through a gray murk below the clouds scudding overhead. It was a wet, blustery day. He did not care. The weather might be crap, but it was still perfection. He knew it was all a chimera, but he was grateful for it, though it would have been better if Anna had been there in person. How good would it be to have her-

The insistent chiming of his neuronics smashed his daydreams to dust. “What now?” Michael muttered aloud while he accepted the incoming com.

It was his agent, Mitesh, the face of the artificial intelligence that of an older, wiser Michael. A Michael with wrinkles and a bad haircut, the family always said, teasingly. The AI’s computer-generated avatar had the good grace to look apologetic. “I know you said no callers, Michael, but I’m pretty sure you will want to take this pinchcomm.”

“Goddamn it, Mitesh, Anna is the only person I want to hear from, so …” His voice trailed off. “Ah, yeah, right,” he said after a moment.

A smug grin split Mitesh’s face. “Precisely, not that you ever told me that. Quite the opposite, in fact. What you actually told me was-”

“Okay, okay, I know what I said.” It was Michael’s turn to look apologetic. “Sorry about that.”

Mitesh smiled. “Don’t worry about it. So may I tell Miss Anna that you’ll take her call?”

“Miss Anna! Jeez, she’d love that.” Michael laughed, shaking his head. “You’re a real smart-ass! Makes her sound like some sort of feudal grande dame. Put her on.”

“Patching her through.”