Graham Paul: The battle of Devastation reef

“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.

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.”

Anna sat quietly for a while. “The Hammers,” she said at last. “Does anyone understand those sons of bitches? I sure as hell don’t.”

“Nor me,” Michael replied with a shake of the head. “Something tells me it will not be long before we’re at their throats again. If I were them, I’d tear up the armistice. Go back on the offensive. Hit us while we’re still trying to rebuild the Fleet after Comdur, shut down all our interstellar trade routes, force us back to the negotiating table.”

“Hell. That’s a cheery assessment. Can they do that, shut us down, I mean?”

“Don’t know for sure, but they should try. What can they lose? If they sit around waiting for something to happen, we’ll eventually have a Fleet that can take them on-who knows, maybe with antimatter weapons-and we’re back to where we were before Comdur. Lining our ships up, loading the marines, and counting the days down until we can invade Commitment to rip their Hammer hearts out,” he said, his voice rising, shaking with vicious intensity.

He paused for a moment to recover his self-control. “Sorry. Got a bit carried away.” He threw a quick glance at Anna, her face radiant in the early-morning sun. “I must stop taking it so personally. I really must.”

“You have every reason, Michael,” Anna said, her voice softened by concern.

He nodded. He had. “So,” he said after another long pause, “what about us?”

“What can I say?” Anna said, shrugging her shoulders. “Nothing’s changed. You’re right about the Hammers. There’s no chance they’ll sit around scratching their asses while we take our time rebuilding the Fleet. So the armistice is a dead man walking. It can’t be long before it falls over. That means Damishqui will be in the thick of things, and those dreadnoughts of yours, too. I’m damn sure they won’t leave you doing endless sims.”

Michael frowned and shook his head. “No, they won’t.”

“So, like I say. Nothing’s changed. I love you, you love me, but until the Hammers are beaten, I cannot commit, and you can’t; you shouldn’t, either. Michael”-Anna touched his arm, so softly, it was more a caress-“don’t push it. I know you want me to commit, but I can’t. Not until this is over. Just take it a day at a time, and with a bit of luck we’ll both come through. Then we’ll do the whole commitment thing, I promise. Marriage, house, day jobs, kids …”

Her voice cracking, Anna turned away, but not before Michael saw the tears.

“Enough,” she said after a while, head still turned away as she wiped her eyes. “I’ve just been on the commair flight from hell, so all I want is a shower, a decent cup of coffee, and some breakfast. So let’s just leave it at that. Wake me up when we get close to the Palisades.”

There was nothing more to say. Soon Anna was asleep. They flew on, the flier’s cabin quiet, the only noise the soft hiss of air across plasglass.

The Palisades, Ashakiran planet

For all the progress Michael was making with the post-combat stress deprogramming, Detective Sergeant Kalkov’s jeering face still haunted him, the nightmare grinding its way to the same terrifying conclusion. Thanks to Indra’s team, the nightmares troubled him less, but they came all the same, and tonight was one of those nights.