Federated Worlds Space Fleet College, Terranova Planet
Rear Admiral Jan Fielding, the flag officer commanding, Federated Worlds Space Fleet College, sat back in her chair and sighed heavily as she turned to the large picture window behind her desk.
“I don’t like this one little bit, Joseph,” she said, staring out at the broad expanse of parade ground across which squads of first-year cadets moved like small black robots, harassed and harangued every step of the way by other small black robots. But Fielding saw none of them, her face troubled and drawn.
The tall, solidly built man standing slightly to one side nodded as Fielding turned back to her desk. “Not many of us do, sir. But now that Admiral al-Rawahy has endorsed the official report of the board of inquiry, there’s nothing more to be done. But at least the matter was dealt with administratively rather than under military justice.”
“I know, I know. But Admiral al-Rawahy’s as concerned about this whole matter as we are.”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.” Bukenya’s voice was so deliberately diplomatic, the sharp-edged planes that made up his face so carefully arranged into an expressionless blue-black mask, that Fielding couldn’t help smiling.
“Yes, yes. Quite right, Joseph.” Fielding accepted the unspoken criticism. What admirals might or might not have said to each other was not something she should be talking about. “Okay, let’s get on with it.”
“Sir.” Turning, Bukenya moved to the door and pulled it open a little too sharply, Fielding thought. Let’s not make it any worse than it already is, she told herself.
“Senior Cadet Helfort? The admiral will see you now.”
“Sir!”
The young man, immaculate in razor-creased dress blacks, marched into the room and came rigidly to attention in front of the battered oak desk, a relic from Old Earth, it was said. Only a slight trembling of the fingertips and a thin sheen of sweat across the forehead betrayed his feelings. The admiral watched as Michael Helfort fought to slow his breathing before looking her square in the eye.
“Senior Cadet Helfort, sir.”
“At ease, Helfort.”
“Sir.”
For a moment Fielding found herself dragged back more years than she cared to think about. It had been a long time since she had last seen Helfort’s father, but the boy could have been he. Relatively short by Fed standards, Michael Helfort had his father’s well-muscled, thickset build, the shoulders broad, the same untidy hair. A fraction too long, though, even for a senior cadet about to graduate, she noted. The eyes were his father’s, too, hazel in color and deeply set in a faced tanned to a dark brown. But most noticeable was the way he looked at her; he might have his father’s eyes, but he had his mother’s penetratingly direct gaze. She’d been a very fine officer, as Fielding recalled, and a loss to Space Fleet; some even said that Kerri Helfort had been the finest rear admiral Space Fleet had never had.
The admiral shook herself. This was no time for reminiscing, no time for worrying, though she didn’t like to think about what Helfort’s parents would say when they got the news. She turned her eyes back to the old-fashioned paper document that sat dead center on the otherwise empty desk. The single page of thick cream-colored paper, signed by Vice Admiral al-Rawahy and sealed with his massive red wax seal, heavy with the power and might of the Federated Worlds, mocked her concerns. Leaning forward slightly, she started to read, her voice flat and colorless.
“To Senior Cadet Michael Wallace Helfort, serial number FC021688J.
“From Vice Admiral Abdulla bin Issa al-Rawahy, director of Fleet training, Federated Worlds Space Fleet.”
Fielding paused. This was not right. Michael just stood there motionless, the sweat threatening to bead across his forehead.
Fielding forced herself to continue.
“Whereas the board of inquiry convened by my authority on Monday 15 June 2398 Universal Date, having reviewed all relevant evidence and having heard all persons with knowledge of the matter under inquiry, namely, the unsafe operation of Planetary Heavy Lander (Assault) Registration Number PHLA-789465 while under your command on Thursday 14 May 2398, Universal Date contrary to OPS-MAN-PHLA-2245, has completed its report.
“And, whereas the conclusion of the board of inquiry that you, Senior Cadet Michael W. Helfort, did act in a manner risking injury or death to crew, passengers, and ground-based civilians has been endorsed by me following my full and detailed review of the report of the board of inquiry, I hereby delegate the matter for administrative action by your military commander, Rear Admiral Jan Carlotta Fielding, Flag Officer commanding, Space Fleet College of the Federated Worlds.
“Signed and sealed this day, Friday 3 July 2398 Universal Date, by me, Abdulla bin Issa al-Rawahy, vice admiral, director of Fleet training, Federated Worlds Space Fleet.”
Fielding placed the document back on the desk, taking a moment to position it dead center before looking up directly into the eyes of the young man in front of her, eyes that, she was pleased to see, looked straight back at her unblinkingly.
“Senior Cadet Helfort. Do you understand what I have just said?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are there any questions that you would like to ask at this stage?”
“No, sir.” Helfort stood unmoving, the sweat beading on his forehead threatening to run down into his eyes.
Fielding nodded. “Very well. In that case, I am required by Article 2349.7 of the Federated Worlds Code of Military Justice to ask you whether or not you accept the findings of the board of inquiry. If you do not, and it is your right not to, the report of the board of inquiry together with any comments by Vice Admiral al-Rawahy will be forwarded to the commander in chief, Federated Worlds Space Fleet, for further review. If you do accept the findings, it rests with me to determine the administrative action to be taken as a consequence of the report. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you require further time to consider your answer or to consult any natural person or any licensed AI-generated persona?”
“No, sir. I do not.”
“Very well. What is your decision?”
“Sir, I accept the findings of the board,” Helfort said stiffly.
Thank God, thought the admiral. She had watched Helfort through half-closed eyes as he’d struggled to make the right decision. You are your parents’ son, she thought, and you’ve made the right decision even if that painful fact may not be clear to you right now.
“Very well. Lieutenant Commander Bukenya will attest to your decision, a copy of which will be commed to you and to your personnel file.
“It now falls to me to prescribe what administrative action shall be taken as a consequence of the report of the board of inquiry.” She paused while Bukenya handed her a second thick cream-colored document, this one marked with her own red seal, smaller than al-Rawahy’s but still impressive. As it always did, it struck her how archaic a lump of red wax stamped onto a bit of paper really was even if it was DNA-coded and time-stamped to make the document unarguably genuine. But still, that was the way things were done in the Federated Worlds Space Fleet, as they always had been. Who was she to argue?
The admiral started to read in the same flat voice she had used before, utterly devoid of emotion. As she watched, Helfort stood ramrod straight with an impassive look on his face. He didn’t blink even when a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and into his left eye. “First, the conclusion of the board of inquiry shall be noted in your personnel file for a period of five years unless extended by the administrative decision of a duly qualified authority.
“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.
“Ready to talk?” Bukenya was back in the depths of his armchair. Michael nodded.
“The admiral wanted me to talk to you off the record, as it were. You need to understand that there are…well, there are a number of people who…Let’s just say there are people who are not very happy at what just occurred. You have one of the best records of any cadet, not just in your year but also for as long as people can remember. So the idea that you risked the lives of your crew and of innocent civilians on the ground by deliberately resetting the terrain avoidance system to manual just to impress people like d’Castreaux and Narayan is frankly incredible.
“If I know anything at all, Helfort,” Bukenya said intently, leaning forward, “I know that you understand your limitations. You don’t yet have the skill or experience to pilot a lander at low level without the terrain avoidance system engaged, and you know it.”
Bukenya sat back in his chair before continuing. “So if you did not reset terrain avoidance, then who else did it but one of your two fellow crew members, most likely d’Castreaux? As your tactical officer, he was the only one who had the authority apart from you, though how he did it without leaving a proper execute record in the log is something the lander design authority is looking into.” Even if, Bukenya thought bitterly, that same design authority hadn’t been able to bring itself to admit to the board of inquiry that there might have been deficiencies in the lander’s datalogging system, that there might in fact be a way around the access security protocols.
“Is that what you think, sir? Is that what the admiral thinks?” The forlorn hope in Michael’s voice tore at Bukenya.
“For what it’s worth, and I’m sorry to say it’s not much, it is what we think. It’s what a lot of people think. Your parents are well remembered in the Fleet and still command great respect and affection, which helps. But the sworn evidence of two Federation officers under oath backing up the datalogs showing that you or, rather, someone in the command pilot’s seat did in fact set the system to manual just to show off is all it takes to prove you a liar, I’m afraid. Even the Fleet legal service couldn’t shake them, and you know how tough they are.”
“But sir-”
Bukenya’s hand went up to stop Michael cold. “And regardless, you were the command pilot. So even if d’Castreaux and Narayan did what you say they did, you should have picked it up. Without terrain avoidance, a lander is a lethally dangerous lump of metal at low level, and you were in command, Michael. You should have spotted it. No excuses. Just a pity that nobody had their neuronics set to full recording to catch d’Castreaux in the act.
“But the admiral does want you to know that she believes in you, that many in the Space Fleet believe in you. More important, she wants you to believe in you. But you have to put this behind you and move on. As for the d’Castreauxs and Narayans of this world, let their futures take care of themselves. I think you’ll find that…well, let’s just say that history has a way of repeating itself.”
Michael thought about that for a few seconds, and then it clicked. “You mean d’Castreaux’s father, sir? I heard about that. Discharged in ’81 or something.” Michael paused as the implications of Bukenya’s words sank in. “But I thought that he-”
Again Bukenya’s hand stopped Michael dead.
“Forget I even mentioned it. It really doesn’t matter what happened. Eighty-one was a long time ago. What matters is what happens now, next month, next year. And speaking of next month, the admiral will be speaking to Lieutenant Ribot, your new captain. I know Ribot, and so does the admiral: We served together in the Ulugh Beg. He’s a good man and a fair one, so make the most of the opportunities he will give you.”
“Sir.” There was nothing more that Michael could say.
“And Michael.”
“Sir?”
“Ignore d’Castreaux and his crew. Thanks to some serious work behind the scenes, you are still in the Fleet. So when you see them, by all means make the most of that small victory. But physically assaulting d’Castreaux or Narayan is one surefire way of making all that hard work a waste of time. And that, young man, would seriously upset some people you shouldn’t upset.”
Michael sat for two long quiet minutes, head hanging, as he struggled with the enormity of the defeat that d’Castreaux and Narayan had inflicted on him. Finally, his head came up.
“Okay. It still hurts like hell, but Space Fleet is the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do with my life, so no, I won’t throw it all away.”
“Good. And remember, say nothing to anyone. Not even your parents.”
“I won’t, sir.”
“Oh, and once again, irrespective of who sets the terrain avoidance system, remember that it’s always your responsibility as command pilot. And put your neuronics to full recording when you’re around people you don’t trust. Now, finish your whiskey and go. I’ve got work to do.”
“Sir.”
The team looked at Michael in stunned disbelief.
The tightly knit group who were Michael’s closest friends had crammed into his tiny cabin to hear the outcome of the board action and were having as much trouble as Michael coming to terms with the enormity of the injustice. Ramesh Gupta, perched awkwardly on the corner of Michael’s dresser-even he, strong and sinewy as he was, could not displace Karen Sutler’s massive hundred-kilo frame from its commanding position in the middle of the battered relic that probably had seen generations of cadets pass through-actually had his mouth wide open in shock. Nicco Guzevic was twisting his beret to the point where it was beginning to come apart; David ben-Gurion, Karen Jacowitz, and Charles Mbeki stared wide-eyed in disbelief, and Bronwyn Kriketos had tears in her eyes.
“The slimeball pigs.”
As ever, Anna Cheung was the first to speak. And then, all at once, the entire group was in full flow. If words were deeds, d’Castreaux and Narayan were dead meat.
“Guys, guys, guys.” Michael held up his hands until the rush of swear words, abuse, and threats of grievous bodily harm slowed to a stop with a final “Bastards” from Michael Takahashi and an “I’ll tear d’Castreaux’s fucking head off” from Jemma Alhamid. Slight as Jemma was, Michael knew she could and would if she got half a chance.
“Look. They could have thrown me out, but they didn’t. And at the moment that’s all I care about. As for d’Castreaux and Narayan, well, let me just say that their time will come. But it’ll be when I’m ready and not before. Understand?”
“But Michael, how can you be so, well, so rational about this? I don’t understand.” Anna’s green eyes bored into Michael, and his heart kicked, as it always did when she looked right into him like that.
“Because I know what I really want, and I’m not going to let a pack of low-life creeps put me off track. Besides, as Bukenya said, irrespective of who touches a lander’s controls, it was my responsibility as command pilot.”
This time Michael did not try to stop the torrent of words; he figured that it was not a bad thing to have the team think that Bukenya was being a smart-ass even though in their hearts they all knew Bukenya was right. Michael sat back, jammed into the corner, and enjoyed the residual warmth from Bukenya’s whiskey until the flood subsided. He let the silence stretch until he had the team’s full attention.
“So this is what we are going to do. Fuck them all, I say. The Dog and Duck at 20:00 to celebrate my survival. Be there on pain of death. And for God’s sake, one of you make sure I get home okay. I don’t want another session in front of the admiral ever again.”
Anna stared at him as if he were mad. They all did. And then she flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck so tightly that for a moment Michael thought he might choke.
The provost marshal’s neuronics chimed softly, interrupting a deep and meaningful, if slightly one-sided, conversation with two first-year cadets guilty of the unspeakable crime of not moving from A to B with sufficient speed. “Go. Don’t do it again,” he said to the two cadets, who left in a hurry, astonished not to have picked up an unwelcome load of demerits.
The admiral’s avatar bloomed in his neuronics as he accepted the comm, her AI-generated image absolutely faithful right down to the steely look in her eyes. It was a look that marked Rear Admiral Jan Fielding as a woman not to be trifled with.
“Admiral, sir. What can I do for you?”
“Vasili. You’ve heard the news about Helfort?”
“I have, sir. And I’m pleased to hear that the Fleet won’t lose him, after all. He’s a good lad.”
“I agree. But Vasili, I am concerned that tempers are running high and that there may be trouble. I think it would be better if…well, if certain people were on duty tonight.”
“Would those be the people I have just detailed off for spaceport patrol tonight, sir?”
“If the patrol includes d’Castreaux and Narayan, then yes.” What a pleasure it was, the admiral thought for a moment, to work with people who were ahead of her.
“Done, sir. And my spies tell me that the Dog and Duck is the focus of tonight’s activities, so I’ll have Petty Officer Nu’lini and the shore patrol close at hand just in case. And I’ll keep an eye out to make sure things stay under control.”
“You are a good man, Vasili.” The admiral chuckled. “Just make sure Petty Officer Nu’lini understands that there are to be no defaulters at the commander’s table tomorrow. None. Well, not from the vicinity of the Dog and Duck, that is.”
“Understood, sir. None it will be.”
“Good night, Vasili.”
As the landlord of the Dog and Duck shoveled a disheveled and very drunk Michael and the rest the team out the front door and into the early hours of a cool clear Terranovan night, the singing started.
“Oh, back of Casmirati, where the waters runs deep…”
But it was sad and mournful, all anger gone, for the moment at least.
The provost marshal grinned as he commed Petty Officer Nu’lini before gunning his jeep down the side road back to his house and his sleeping wife.
“Make sure they get home okay, Jack.”
“Will do, sir.”