The battle of Devastation reef

After a short pause, Anna’s face blossomed in Michael’s neuronics, her avatar the most faithful of faithful renditions, thanks in large part to an indulgent father’s extravagant gift of the best avatar software in all of humanspace. In Michael’s view, it was money well spent. Anna seemed real; she might have been standing there right in front of him. She was stunning, her beauty a testament to the Chinese, Asian, African, and European gene pools of Old Earth, not to mention a great deal of expensive geneering spanning many generations.

The breath caught in his throat at the sight of her. Anna’s face was a dark honey-gold set under fine black hair that dropped to frame sharply defined cheekbones dusted with pink, a firm nose fractionally too large-geneering was still far from an exact science-above a generous mouth quick to smile. But it was the eyes that always grabbed him: large and set wide, infinitely deep green pools that dragged him in and down.

Anna groaned in mock despair. The ability of her eyes to mesmerize Michael was a long-running private joke. “Michael, for chrissakes, pay attention,” she said in no-nonsense tones. “There’s been a change of plan.”

“Change of plan?” Michael’s focus snapped back to the here and now. He sat up. This sounded promising. Had the fates delivered for once?

“Yup, change of plan,” Anna said with a smile of pure happiness. “You’re in luck, sailor boy. Good old Damishqui is cactus. One of our primary fusion plants has dropped offline, and nobody seems to know why. We’ve been diverted to Suleiman to get the problem fixed. The engineers say we’ll be in the yard for at least a week, and after much groveling, my boss has given me leave. So, let me see … yes, I’ll see you tomorrow morning your time, so make sure you’re at Bachou to pick me up. I can’t stand here talking. This call is costing me a fortune, and I’ve got a flight to catch. I’ve commed you my itinerary. ’Bye.”

Euphoric, Michael stared open-mouthed while Anna’s avatar disappeared. Well, he said to himself, sometimes things went his way, an all too rare occurrence for a Fleet officer.

He commed Mitesh.

“Yes, Michael?” “You followed all that?”

“I did. I’ll keep an eye on things and let you know when to leave to pick her up.”

“Thanks, Mitesh.”

“But while you’re on the line”-Mitesh winced at Michael’s exaggerated groan-“I’ve been swamped with requests for interviews.”

“Let me guess,” Michael said, his voice twisted with resentment, the euphoria blown away in an instant. “All provoked by the latest trashvid documentary?”

“That’s exactly why. You watch it?”

“No way, Mitesh,” Michael snarled. “That’s the fourth doco on the Ishaq business, and if this one was anything like its predecessors, why would I?” He stopped to recover his mental balance. “I suppose you did.”

“It’s in my job description, Michael,” Mitesh replied primly, lips stiffening into a thin line.

“So it is. And?”

“Well, let me see. How best to put it? Yes … it was sensationalist drivel based loosely on what actually happened, sprinkled with interviews from people who weren’t there, seasoned with opinions from so-called experts who could not find their ass with both hands, the whole tawdry brew spiced with exaggeration, innuendo, more than a few outright lies, and-”

“Enough, Mitesh, enough!” Michael said, laughing despite himself, “I get it, I get it. It was garbage.”

“Garbage? You can say that, though I’d prefer to call it two hours of brain-numbing pap. There were some good things about it, though.”

“Oh, yeah?” Michael shook his head in despair. “Do tell, Mitesh.”

“The Hammers received a good kicking, and you came out well. Man of the moment and all that. Nice shot of you in your dress blacks. Mmmm, all those medals, command hash marks, unit citations, wound stripes. I do so love gold on black. The girls will be-”

Michael’s laughter stopped Mitesh’s increasingly camp account in its tracks. “Stop, Mitesh, stop!”

“Well, you asked,” Mitesh protested.

“I did,” Michael said with a heartfelt sigh. He hated the scrutiny; for as long as he could remember, he had avoided the spotlight-public speaking scared the crap out of him-yet here he was, getting it in spades. “Jeez, Mitesh. Why the hell won’t they just leave me alone?”

“You know why, Michael. The average Fed needs heroes just like everybody else, and you’re the poor sap who just happens to be the man of the hour. So live with it. It will pass. Just do your duty and let the trashpress get on and do their thing. They’ll get bored eventually and start looking for someone else, someone new.”

Michael sighed again. Easy for Mitesh to say but hard for Michael to endure. Exhausted by the relentless attention, he had given up going out in public. Hell! The trashpress even turned that simple decision against him. “The Hermit Hero-What Is He Hiding?” had been one of their headlines, followed by hundreds of words before providing the answer: nothing!

“All right, Mitesh. Enough on those scum. No to the interviews, of course.”

Mitesh’s face tightened in disapproval. “That’s a bad call, Michael. Ignoring the trashpress means letting them tell your story the way they want to. You need to tell your own story. They’re beginning to get cranky. You should talk to them before they turn on you.”

“No,” Michael said, “no, I can’t.”

“Can’t? Not a word I associate with you, Michael,” Mitesh said tartly. “But it’s your life.”

“Yes, it is. Anything else?”

“No. I’m working through the vid, and if there are any errors of fact, I’ll lodge a formal complaint with the Mass Communications Tribunal. I’ll com you if I do that; otherwise I’ll leave you be.”

“Thanks, Mitesh,” Michael said, grateful for Mitesh’s unflagging support. Mitesh might be nothing more than the product of some fancy AI engineering, but he was a true friend.

Sunday, September 10, 2400, UD

Bachou Municipal Airport, Ashakiran

“Golf India 55, this is Bachou Tower. You are cleared for takeoff on runway 25. On departure, you are cleared to follow flight pipe Green 66 Bravo.”

“Golf India 55, cleared for takeoff on runway 25, pipe Green 66 Bravo. Roger.”

Michael glanced across at Anna. “Ready?”

Anna nodded. “Let’s go.”

Michael held the flier on the brakes, his seat shuddering while its mass driver came up to full power, steam ripping the air apart behind the compact little machine. Satisfied that all was the way it should be, he released the brakes, the acceleration driving him back into his seat as the flier gathered speed rapidly. He lifted the nose up sharply, Bachou’s small airport fast disappearing behind them.

“In a hurry, are we?” Anna asked, looking across at him, batting her eyes.

“You know me. Places to go and all that,” Michael said with a smile. He held the flier nose up, climbing steeply under full power, the blue of the sky above deepening when they burst through the surface haze filling the valley of the Clearwater River.

“You don’t change, do you?”

“More than you know, Anna,” he said, trying to sound flippant and failing.

Concern clouded Anna’s face. “You okay?”

“Yeah, think so. It’s been pretty rough. Long days. Pressure, pressure, pressure. Jaruzelska’s one tough woman. But I’ll be fine. And the Fleet postcombat trauma guys have been great. So I’ll survive.”

“Hope so,” Anna said. “Suppose you still can’t tell me what these damn dreadnoughts will be used for?”

Michael shook his head. “Sorry, no. I’m not trying to be cute. We haven’t been told yet. But soon, I hope.”

“It’s hard not knowing what the bastards have you lined up for. Whatever it is, it’ll be mayhem. You and trouble seem to go together, Michael Helfort.”

“Yes, we do,” Michael said with a frown, “but don’t blame me. Blame the Hammers.”