Graham Paul: The battle of Devastation reef

“Happy?” she said.

“Yes, sir. My guys deserve the recognition. So thanks for that.”

Jaruzelska nodded. “My pleasure. They earned those medals five times over. But I notice you’re not saying much about yours. Should I read anything into that, Lieutenant Helfort?”

“Er, no, sir,” Michael sputtered. “No, you shouldn’t. Thank you, sir. I’m honored.”

“Yes, you are honored, you ungrateful tyke,” Jaruzelska said. “I listened to what you said, Michael. I heard and understood every word. I know how you feel about these things, but I just cannot agree with you. You need to understand two things. First, a medal is not a piece of cheap pressed metal. It’s a public statement. It shows that what you do matters enough for the Federation to take the trouble to say so, out loud, in public, for all to hear. Believe me, that’s important when you’re facedown in the muck and blood of combat. Second, if I don’t recognize the commander of my three dreadnought squadrons, what would that tell the world?”

“That you think I was wrong to disobey Perkins’s order?” Michael hazarded.

“That’s right. Let me tell you, Michael, that would have been ten times worse than all the debate these medals are going to generate. Shit storm does not even begin to describe it. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. Understood.”

“Good. You know something, Michael?”

“What, sir?”

“You are a good combat commander. You’ve proved that over and over again. But you’re not a great commander … yet. You can be one of the greats, one of the people Fleet officers talk about in a hundred years, but only if you get your head up out of the dirt. I know it’s a tired old cliche, Michael, but a great commander really does start with the big picture and work back to the details. How else can you get the small things right? Michael”-Jaruzelska’s voice softened-“I know the things that matter to you, I know what you want to achieve, but don’t let them make your decisions for you. Put them into context first before working out how to get them done. All right?”

“Sir,” Michael said, trying not to sound mulish but not quite succeeding.

Jaruzelska sighed. “You are one stubborn son of a bitch, Michael, and that’s a God-given fact,” she said. “Anyway, enough of the career guidance. Fleet will be in touch about the awards ceremony. The commander in chief has agreed that all the dreadnoughts’ medals be awarded at one time. Okay, that’s it. Once again, well done.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Jaruzelska’s avatar vanished, leaving Michael wondering when he would ever get one over on the admiral. Probably never, he decided as he returned to the task of locating Kallewi, as he seemed to know him better than he knew himself.

Personnel Division, Space Fleet headquarters

Foundation, Terranova

“Take a seat, Helfort.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Captain Selvaraj, Assistant Director, Fleet Personnel (Command Postings), studied Michael for a while before speaking. When he did speak, his voice was cold.

“Since the board of inquiry has in effect exonerated you”-Selvaraj made a point of stressing the words in effect , his tone leaving no doubt that there had been a serious miscarriage of justice-“we need to decide where you go next.”

“Yes, sir, though if I may, sir?”

“What?”

“Well, sir. I think I should point out that the board of inquiry did not ‘in effect’ exonerate me, it-”

“Enough,” Selvaraj snapped, eyes narrowing in anger. “How dare you …” He stopped, fighting to recover his composure. “I am not interested in semantics, Lieutenant. And watch your mouth. I’ll not tolerate insubordination. Is that understood?”

Michael stared coolly at the man long enough to call his bluff. “Yes,” he said. “Understood … sir.”

Selvaraj’s face darkened. “I’ve reviewed your file in detail,” he said at last, “and I think what should happen next is pretty obvious. Given what you’ve been through, I believe you should consider resigning your commission.”

Michael was not sure he had heard the man right. “Sorry, sir?” he said, confused. “What? Resign?” It was the last thing he had expected to hear.

“Yes. Resign, Helfort. I think that would be the best thing for you, for your fellow spacers, for Fleet. We think you should resign.”

Anger flared inside Michael, white-hot, nearly uncontrollable. He forced himself to sit absolutely still, not trusting himself to speak. Goddamn pencil pusher, he raged. How dare he?

Selvaraj drummed his fingers on the desk. “Helfort, I don’t have all day. If you’ve been struck dumb for some reason, if you’d like some time to think about what I’ve just said, we’ll reschedule.”

“No, sir,” Michael said. “I think this needs to be resolved. Here, now. If that’s okay with you, of course.”

“Do not be insubordinate, Helfort,” Selvaraj snapped, “even though it’s the one thing you seem to be good at.”

“I’ll forget you said that, sir,” Michael said, “even though I’d be well within my rights to lodge a formal complaint against you for saying it.”

“Enough! Answer my damn question, Helfort. Resignation, yes or no?”

“Before I answer, sir, tell me something. You said ‘we think’ just a minute ago. Does that mean you have the director’s approval for suggesting I resign?”

“Ah.” Selvaraj shifted in his seat. “Yes, I think I can confirm that he has accepted my recommendation.”

“Fine, sir,” Michael said. “So you won’t mind if I ask to see the admiral’s formal endorsement of that recommendation. It would be a first, sir, I have to say. I’m a combat-proven captain, I have more medals and unit citations to my name than most officers three times my age”-including you, Captain Selvaraj, you deskbound asshole, he thought-“with more to come following Operation Opera, and yet you want me to resign just when Fleet’s screaming for all the command-qualified warfare spacers it can get its hands on. Sorry, sir, that does not make any sense. And if it doesn’t make sense to me, I wonder how … well, let’s just say I need to know that your offer has Admiral Karpovski’s formal approval … sir.”

Selvaraj’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “And if the admiral formally approved it, would that make any difference?”

Michael shook his head. “No, sir, none at all. I am what I am. So long as there’s one Hammer left standing, I belong in the Fleet. I belong in command of a Federated Worlds warship. You may not like me, sir-and frankly, I don’t care whether you do or you don’t-but my record has to speak for itself. To those who will listen,” he added bitterly.

Selvaraj peered at Michael for a moment. “Well,” he said, “seems we might have underestimated you, Helfort. Okay, I cannot force any officer with your record to resign, but be under no illusions. You are a liability. Where you go, death and destruction follow. No”-Selvaraj’s hands went up to forestall Michael’s protest-“to be fair, that’s not your fault; it’s just the way things have worked out. The problem is that it’s personal. Here. Let me com you an intelligence report we received two days ago. Perhaps you’ll judge us less harshly when you’ve read it.”

Michael read the report carefully. When he finished, his face was grim. He stared at Selvaraj. “The bastards,” he said. “What can I say? So the Hammers want me dead, their chief councillor, the top dog himself, wants me dead. Shit, sir. The Hammers want all of us dead.” He shook his head. “I don’t think it changes anything.”

“Maybe not, but it still leaves me with a problem. Where I post you becomes a high-priority target for the Hammers just because you’re there. Whether you like it or not, that is something Fleet has to consider.”