Graham Paul: The battle at the Moons of Hell

“Second, you shall requalify as command pilot on the planetary heavy lander subject to your achieving an overall qualification score of not less than 98 percent.

“Third, all additional seniority due to you by virtue of your academic and professional performance while a cadet is void. Therefore, upon graduation, your seniority date as a junior lieutenant shall be 1 September 2398.”

For the first time Michael visibly flinched. Twelve months’ seniority, the product of three hard years of effort, gone. Just like that.

Fielding placed the document on the desk. “An attested digital copy of Admiral al-Rawahy’s endorsement and my administrative actions will be commed to your file. These hard copies are for your own personal records.” Fielding pushed the two papers to the front of the desk.

Michael just stared at them. “Sir.”

“Well, pick them up, Helfort; they won’t bite.”

“Sir.”

With all the reluctance of a man about to pick up a red-hot poker, Helfort reached forward to take the documents from the desk. Somehow Fielding knew that Helfort would never look at them again.

“Unless there is anything else in relation to this matter that you wish to raise at this time, you are dismissed.”

“No, sir. Nothing.” Helfort came to attention, turned, and was gone almost before Fielding and Bukenya realized it.

As the door closed, Bukenya looked at the admiral. “He will see that as very harsh, especially the loss of seniority. That’ll put him behind some real, uh”-Bukenya paused-“some real underachievers.”

The admiral smiled briefly at Bukenya’s understatement. He should have said “jerks” because that was what some of her students were despite the best efforts of the college staff to turn them into half-decent Fleet officers. “He will. And that’s why I want you to talk to him. His new skipper is a good man. And I just happen to know they are in for some interesting work. So tell him to hang in and let him know that I will be talking to Ribot on his behalf. Despite what the board of inquiry says, he’s a very good officer, an outstanding officer, in fact, and we do not want to lose him. But for God’s sake tell him to say nothing about what you talk about.”

Bukenya half smiled. “Deniability, sir?”

“Damn right. Now go to it; I’ve got things to do. One of which is putting a vidmail together telling his parents what I’ve had to do to their son.”

As Bukenya left, the admiral leaned back in her chair as she commed her flag lieutenant.

“John, can you contact Admiral al-Rawahy’s secretary and tell him that I would like to speak to the admiral, please.”

Michael’s stomach churned with the absolute, total wrongness of it all. He half walked, half ran down the stairs from the admiral’s office. Two first-year cadets were firmly shoved aside as he pounded down to the ground floor and out into the hot Terranovan sun. His neuronics chimed softly to tell him that the team was waiting for him in the senior cadets’ mess. Bugger them; they could all wait. Head down, he charged on, unseeing.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Senior Cadet Helfort, or should I say Mister Helfort, late of the Federated Worlds Space Fleet.”

Michael stopped dead in his tracks. He didn’t need to turn around to see who had spoken. The anger roared in his head. Uncaring, he turned to face the small group that stood casually against the wall of the admin building. Bastards, he thought. They’ve been waiting for me to come out. Without thinking, his fists balled and he closed in. “You fucking bastard, d’Castreaux. I’m going to kill you for this.”

D’Castreaux paused for a few long moments and smiled. “I think Mister Helfort is upset. What do you think, Jasmina?”

Senior Cadet Jasmina Karayan smiled back. “I think his dad’s going to kill him. Don’t you?”

At that point Michael snapped, starting toward d’Castreaux, hands coming up to wring the life out of the sneering scumbag who stood in front of him.

“Helfort!” Bukenya’s voice was like a steel wire whipped across the back of Michael’s neck. He stopped, hands only centimeters from d’Castreaux’s throat. Instantly, the anger was gone, replaced by an ice-cold certainty.

“Another day, d’Castreaux,” Michael hissed. “Depend on it.” Michael turned to face Bukenya, coming rigidly to attention.

“Sir.”

Bukenya pointedly ignored him. “You four. Do you have business in administration?”

“No, sir,” the four chorused like four submissive but still triumphant sheep.

“Right. Present in an inappropriate area without reasonable grounds. Fifty demerits each. Now get out of my sight.”

The four snapped to attention, saluted, turned, and marched smartly away. But every step told Bukenya that they thought fifty demerits was a very cheap price to pay for the pleasure of seeing Helfort fresh from his place of execution.

Pausing only to comm the demerits into the cadet’s files, Bukenya stood in front of Michael. “You are a bloody young fool, Helfort. My office, now.”

“Sir.”

“Close the door and sit down, Michael.”

Michael did as he was told and perched uncomfortably on the edge of a battered armchair. He had heard Bukenya swear it came from the wardroom of the old Adventure . Michael had looked it up: The Adventure had been scrapped after receiving severe damage at the First Battle of Jackson’s World back in ’37, so it was possible. But how a serving spacer could lug around a large, lumpy, and extremely unattractive sixty-year-old armchair was something he thought could be open to question. But not now. He jerked his mind away from the subject of Bukenya’s armchair-funny how you could think of something so totally irrelevant at a time like this-and focused his gaze in the approved college style directly onto Bukenya’s face.

Bukenya’s tone was harsh. “This conversation never occurred; if asked, all we discussed were your future prospects and how you could best put the matters of the last few months behind you. Call it psychological and career counseling. Do I make myself clear?”

“Clear, sir,” Michael said, wondering what on earth this had to do with the unsafe operation of Federated Worlds Planetary Heavy Lander (Assault) Registration Number PHLA-789465 while under his command contrary to blah blah blah.

Bukenya sat back in his chair, another battered and lumpy example of the species. His voice softened. “Goddammit, Michael. Why did you let those fools provoke you? They’re not worth it.”

Bukenya paused as he struggled back out of his armchair to go to a small cupboard behind his desk, from which he produced a bottle of twelve-year-old Gabrielli whiskey. Well depleted, Michael noted in passing.

“Who would have thought that a planet largely settled by Italian migrants would have such a way with malted barley?” Bukenya poured two generous measures and passed a glass across to Michael, who still sat perched uncomfortably on the edge of his chair, totally confused by Bukenya’s behavior. The fact that he still had a future in the Space Fleet was just starting to sink in-d’Castreaux hadn’t been the only one expecting Michael’s career to be cut short-and with it the dim beginnings of hope, but he was still reeling from the impact of the admiral’s words. The loss of seniority, the fact that his precious leave would be cut short by having to requalify as command pilot on one of the college’s long-suffering and very battered heavy landers-and with a minimum 98 percent rating no less! — and not least what his father, Captain A. G. Helfort FWSF (retired), and mother, Commodore K. D. A. Helfort FWSF (retired), would have to say, hurt and hurt badly. He drank deeply from the glass and felt the burn as the alcohol slipped smoothly down his throat.