“I’m sure,” Selvaraj snapped. “One more thing. The crew of
Michael did not know what to say, so he said nothing.
“You can go,” Selvaraj said, waving Michael away. “I’ll get your orders posting you to
“Thank you, sir,” Michael said, deadpan. “Much appreciated.”
Selvaraj’s eyes narrowed. “Get out of my office, Helfort, before I kick you out.”
Michael was confused. Selvaraj might be an A-grade jerk, but at least the man had given him a command. Not just any old command, either, but a dreadnought squadron command. And he was going back into space with the team from
What worried him were the things Selvaraj had not said. Why had he been sidelined? Why the posting to Nyleth-B? It had to be the least challenging command in all of Federation space. He did not like it one bit. He wanted to be in the thick of it, somewhere he could make a difference, somewhere he could play a part in bringing Anna home, somewhere he could help to bring the goddamn Hammers to account.
With the elation engendered by the prospect of another dreadnought command evaporating fast, he set off toward Fleet operations. He needed to know a lot more about Nyleth-B.
Friday, June 15, 2401, UD
The final bars of the Federated Worlds’ national anthem faded away across the crowded lawn in front of the President’s House.
Spacers and marines in dress uniform stood at ease, and the diminutive white-haired woman holding the Federated Worlds’ highest office stepped forward to stand behind a simple wooden lectern.
For a moment she said nothing, looking left and then right at the two stands where families and friends were taking their seats after the formality of the Presidential Salute. She turned back to look at Michael and the rest of the spacers and marines from the dreadnoughts
“Good morning, everyone, and welcome to the President’s House. Or should I say, given how long I’ve been here, my house?”
Michael chuckled as laughter bubbled up from the crowd. Diouf was the longest serving of the Federation’s many presidents; Michael reckoned she was so popular, she could make a crowd of hungover alcoholics laugh.
“In the past,” she said, “I have been accused of making long-winded speeches, and yes, I will admit I have been guilty of that”-more laughter-“but not today, you will all be pleased to hear. That’s because today is not about me nor is it about the office of president. It is about the men and women standing in front of me. And I do not need to say much, because what needs to be said takes just a few sentences.
“These are desperate times, and in desperate times, it is to spacers and marines that we turn. All too often, they die to protect us. They die far from home, with pain and fear their only companions. They die unseen and unheard by the people for whom they give their lives.”
Diouf paused for a moment.
“By honoring those here, we honor the memories of those who could not be here, those who have fallen in battle to preserve the Federation. I ask you all to stand for a moment in silence while we remember them.”
Not a word was said as the crowd stood, the quiet absolute. Michael glanced across at his parents. Both stood unmoving. Both stared into the distance as if searching for all the shipmates they had lost in their years of service, tears falling in sun-silvered lines down their cheeks. They rarely talked about their time in the Fleet, but Michael knew their long years of combat during the Third Hammer War had scarred them both deeply.
“Thank you all,” the president said. “Please be seated. We now come to the day’s business: presentation of medals to the spacers and marines of the Federated Worlds Starships
Michael had trouble believing what he had just heard. But he had not misunderstood President Diouf’s intentions; her eyes had locked onto his as she spoke. She had crossed a line, and she had done it to tell the Federated Worlds that she was on his side.
Diouf turned to her aide-de-camp, his aiguillettes shimmering gold in the morning sun. “Colonel Kashvili?”
“Thank you, ma’am,” the marine said. “Lieutenant Michael Wallace Helfort, Federated Worlds Space Fleet.”
Michael marched briskly out to stand at attention in front of the president, his salute acknowledged with a broad smile and a quick nod of the head.
“For extraordinary leadership when in command of the Federated Worlds Warships
Taking the Federation Command Star from an aide, Diouf pinned it on Michael’s left breast. The Federation Starburst was next; Diouf placed the extravagant silver spray set against a gold background on its indigo ribbon around Michael’s neck.
“Congratulations, Michael,” the president said warmly. “You deserve these. You’ve done well.”
“Lucky, I guess, ma’am.”
“Not sure about that. But you hang in there. We need to finish this war.”
“Can’t come too soon, ma’am.”
“No, it can’t. You be careful out there.”
“I will, ma’am.”
Michael took a step back, saluted, and marched back to his place in front of the crew of the
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. That concludes the medal ceremony this morning. The president invites you all to join her in the function room behind the dais. Light refreshments will be served.”
The ceremony dissolved into near chaos; Michael pushed his way through the milling throng of spacers and marines to where his parents stood, two small islands of dress black in a sea of civilian color.
“Mom,” he said when she folded him tightly into her arms, the scent of green-tea perfume, her favorite, triggering a surge of emotion, the feeling of security and warmth overwhelming. The embrace lasted a long time.
“Hey, hey, hey, you two,” Michael’s father protested, “I’m here, too, you know.”
“Sorry, Dad,” Michael said, repeating the process.
“How’re things?” his father said, breaking what was more bear hug than embrace.
Michael shook his head. “You know. The usual. The trashpress is still on my back.”
“I’ve stopped watching,” his father said, the bitterness obvious.
“Me, too. I let Mitesh watch for me.”
“Considering he’s a figment of an AI’s imagination, he’s a gem.”
