The Nelson Touch

Christopher G. Nuttall

http://www.chrishanger.net
http://chrishanger.wordpress.com/
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Cover by Justine Adams

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All Comments Welcome!

Cover Blurb

Ark Royal – the Royal Navy’s outdated space carrier – has won a smashing victory against the enigmatic aliens, capturing one of their starships and returning to Earth.  Now, Admiral Theodore Smith and his crew are assigned to command a fleet charged with making a deep-penetration raid into alien territory, a fleet made up of carriers from four different nations.

But with a crewman who isn't what he seems, untested pilots and international friction – and a new and dangerous alien plan - can Ted and his crew survive their mission ... or will they die, alone and unremarked, hundreds of light years from home?

Dedication

To everyone who emailed me and asked for Book II.  

Have fun!

CGN

Author’s Note

The Nelson Touch is Book II in the Ark Royal series, following on from Ark Royal.  A free sample of Book I can be downloaded from my website (www.chrishanger.net) and then purchased from Amazon.

Historically speaking, this book starts roughly six months after the conclusion of Ark Royal.

If you liked this book, feel free to join my facebook page, discussion forum or simply drop me an email.

Prologue

From: Commodore Timothy O’Neal
To: Admiral Sir Thomas Hanover, First Space Lord

Thomas

It has been eleven months since the attack on Vera Cruz both introduced the human race to the existence of aliens and started the First Interstellar War.  Since then, we have learned a great deal about our enemy and how he responds to our weapons and tactics.  In particular, the capture of an alien battlecruiser by Ark Royal was very helpful.

Most of my study group’s recommendations are included in the detailed report, but there are certain issues I wished to bring to your attention personally.  In particular, I must caution you against assuming anything about our foe.  We are still faced with an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a riddle; we know nothing about his internal command structure, internal politics or – most importantly of all – just why he chose to start the war.  Our attempts to crack the captured computer system have yielded no data that might allow us to build up a picture of how our foe thinks.  All we have are deductions from his actions.

They clearly took some time to study us and gear their forces to take advantages of our weaknesses.  The plasma cannon system alone devastated our formations, allowing them to score a major victory over New Russia that came alarmingly close to shortening the war.  If we hadn't possessed Ark Royal, with armour that made her largely immune to alien weapons, we might well have lost the war within six months.  However, we still lack any insights as to why they actually started the war in the first place.

My team has speculated wildly, using human history as a baseline.  Their government may well be expansionist, bent on conquering or exterminating all other forms of intelligent life.   Or they may view us as a potential threat and see advantages in curbing our own expansion.  Or they may believe that we started the war.  The discovery of artefacts from the long-lost Heinlein on Alien-1 raises a number of uncomfortable questions.  Did the Heinlein Colony mission accidentally start a war with the aliens?

But all of this leads to yet another mystery.  Why don’t they talk to us?  They have not even attempted to demand unconditional surrender, even though it could shorten the war, let alone open up diplomatic channels.  And, so far, every attempt to establish communications with the aliens has ended in failure.

We accept that the aliens have physical problems speaking in human tongues; indeed, that we will have similar problems in trying to pronounce their words.  However, given their obvious skill at technology, it is unlikely that they have any real problems producing equipment that will allow them to bridge the gap.  For that matter, we have no difficulty in doing the same – and yet the alien POWs steadfastly refuse to talk to us.  I have had to dismiss two operatives from the research team for allowing their frustration to impede their professionalism.

In short, we have no way of ending this war, save by outright victory.

Towards that end, sir, I have a few suggestions ...

Chapter One

“Sir?”

Admiral Sir Theodore Smith jerked awake in the shuttle’s uncomfortable seat.  Lieutenant Janelle Lopez, his Flag Lieutenant, was looking down at him, an expression of worry crossing her beautiful dark face.  Ted couldn't tell if she was worried about him or the effects on her career of awakening her Admiral from an unsound sleep, but it hardly mattered.  A glance out the porthole showed their destination coming into view.

“I’m awake,” he said, crossly.  His mouth felt like sandpaper and he swallowed, hard.  There were water supplies on the shuttle, but he hadn't bothered to take a drink since they’d departed from Nelson Base.  “Were there any further updates?”

Janelle shook her head, pushing her hair back into her ponytail.  She looked absurdly young for her position, but Ted had insisted on having her assigned to him as a reward for believing in Ark Royal when the Old Lady had been nothing more than a drifting hulk orbiting Earth, nothing more than a reserve for officers and crew the Royal Navy couldn't be bothered to discharge.  Now, with Ark Royal the most important ship in the fleet, the competition for postings to her – and her Admiral’s flag staff – was intense.  But Ted was determined that those who had shown faith would have first choice of slots behind her massive sheets of armour.

He smiled at her tiredly, then turned to peer out of the porthole.  Ark Royal was lit up from prow to stern, shining out in the inky darkness of space like a beacon of hope.  She was ugly – even her fiercest defenders would never call her beautiful – yet there was a quiet elegance to her stubby lines that caught his eye and fired his imagination.  As they came closer, he saw the makeshift sensor blisters, point defence cannons and missile tubes mounted on her hull, ready to defend her from all enemies.  It was ironic, he knew, that the Old Lady had once been considered obsolete.  But with alien starfighters armed with plasma cannons out there, hunting for targets, the only real defence was layers of solid-state armour.  The loss of twelve modern carriers in the First Battle of New Russia had proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt.

“Preparing to land,” the pilot called from the cockpit.  “I believe they’re putting together a ceremony for you, sir.”

Ted groaned, so quietly that only Janelle heard him.  Ceremonies were a very important part of the Royal Navy’s traditions, but they hadn't featured in his life until Ark Royal had received a new lease on life.  Since his promotion to Admiral, he’d been forced to endure more ceremonies, speeches and formal dinners than he'd had to attend in his entire life, prior to the war.  The thought of returning to the Old Lady with such elaborate formality seemed absurd.  And yet he knew there was no choice.  Ark Royal was no longer his command, even though he was her Admiral.  He would be a guest on the ship he still considered to be his own.

He leaned back in his seat as the shuttle entered the landing bay and settled down on the deck.  A faint queasiness ran through his body as the shuttle’s gravity field slowly merged with the carrier’s own gravity field.  Bracing himself, he stood and started to walk towards the hatch.  Outside, he knew, the landing bay would already be closed, with a breathable atmosphere being pumped into the massive compartment.  It was a necessity for the Royal Navy’s ceremonies.

Wouldn't do to have the Admiralty step out into cold vacuum, he thought, snidely.  And until someone invents a forcefield to keep the atmosphere inside the ship, that’s precisely what they would do if they didn't wait to repressurise the bay.

He sucked in a breath as he caught sight of his own reflection.  Somewhere along the way, he’d picked up more than a few white hairs, although his body was as healthy as years of naval food and a forced program of exercise could make it.  The perfectly-tailored Admiral’s uniform still seemed odd on him, after being a starship commander for so long.  His blue eyes looked tired, but bright.  The thought of returning to action was galvanising in a way endless meetings could never be.

There was a faint ding from the airlock controller as it registered the presence of a breathable atmosphere outside, but there was a long pause before it opened.  Ted had to fight down the urge to open the airlock himself and step out into the starship, even though he knew it would ruin the ceremony.  It would be petty and childish, but part of him just wanted to set foot on Ark Royal again, even though she was no longer his command.

The airlock clicked, then hissed open.  Ted took a breath, tasting the indefinable mixture of elements that made up the old carrier’s atmosphere, then stepped out onto the deck.  Outside, the landing bay looked shinier than he remembered, suggesting that Captain Fitzwilliam had made good use of the legions of technicians assigned to Ark Royal in the wake of their return to Earth.  He paused, long enough to salute the Union Jack painted on the far bulkhead, then turned to meet his former XO and current Flag Captain, Captain James Fitzwilliam.  

“Admiral Smith,” Captain Fitzwilliam said, as they exchanged salutes.  “Welcome back.”

“Thank you, James,” Ted said, and meant it.  The first time they’d met, Captain Fitzwilliam – a young aristocratic officer – had tried to take command of the carrier out from under Ted’s nose.  Instead, he’d wound up serving as Ted’s XO as Ark Royal went to war.  After a somewhat bumpy start, they’d wound up trusting one another ... and Fitzwilliam had saved both Ted’s life and career.  “It’s good to be back.”

“This is my XO, Commander Amelia Williams,” Fitzwilliam said, nodding to a tall redheaded woman with a stern, almost patrician face.  “She joined us from Victorious.”

Ted nodded, keeping his expression blank.  He’d argued that Commander Keith Farley, his former tactical officer, should be moved up into the XO slot, but the Admiralty had disagreed.  With the new push to construct armoured carriers and battleships that might be able to stand up to the aliens in combat, they wanted as many officers as possible to develop experience with the old-new starships.  He had nothing personal against Commander Williams, but seeing her in place was a reminder that he hadn't won all of the political battles.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said.  “You have some big shoes to fill.”  

He pasted a smile on his face.  Whatever else could be said about her, Commander Williams was definitely one of the Royal Navy’s rising stars.  Her career path would probably have led her to carrier command within a couple of years anyway, although command of any other carrier was something of a poisoned chalice under the circumstances.  During the Battle of New Russia, the aliens had gone through modern carriers like knives through butter. 

“Thank you, sir,” Fitzwilliam said.  “I believe you know my senior crew?”

Ted smiled, more openly this time, as he nodded to his old subordinates.  Most of them had been dedicated lifers, spending their time in an endless struggle to keep the old carrier up and running when the Admiralty didn't give a damn what happened to her.  They’d learnt more about splicing together components and systems from a dozen separate interstellar powers than anyone else, which had helped when the time came to capture an alien starship and press it into service.  A quarter of his former engineering crew, he knew, had been reassigned to either work on the captured ship or assist the joint defence effort.  It would have been more if he hadn't put his foot down on the matter.  The Old Lady needed her unique engineering crew to remain functional.

“It’s a pleasure to see you all again,” he said.  “And I hope that fame hasn't gone entirely to your heads.”

They smiled back at him, a little ruefully.  No one had paid attention to them when they’d been drifting in orbit, part of the naval reserve no one ever expected to be called into action.  Now, they were not only famous, but rich.  The combined world governments had poured out reward money for the captured alien ship, enough to give even the lowliest crew a sizable bonus.  And the fame had made them heroes.  Not all of them had handled it very well.

He paused long enough to exchange a few words with men who were friends, even if he outranked them, then Fitzwilliam dismissed the greeting party and escorted Ted up through the starship’s long passageways towards the bridge.  As before, Ted couldn't help noticing that the decks looked cleaner than ever before, although the telltale signs of constant maintenance were everywhere.  A number of panels were open, with crewmen working on the starship’s innards or carefully replacing worn components.  Every day, Ted knew, a handful of older components failed.  The Royal Navy’s response to the problem, back in the days Ark Royal had been a frontline carrier, had been to build a massive amount of redundancy into the system.  Modern carriers had fewer maintenance problems ...

His lips twitched, humourlessly.  Modern carriers were also strikingly vulnerable to alien attack.

“We've effectively completed the refit,” Fitzwilliam said, as they stepped through the armoured hatch and into the bridge.  Buried towards the prow of the vessel, it was almost impossible to disable without blowing the entire starship apart.  “I think I can honestly say that the Old Lady has never been in a better state.”

Ted nodded as he surveyed the bridge.  The old consoles had been replaced with gleaming new systems, although they too were already showing signs of wear.  He’d kept up with the readiness reports from the carrier and he’d been pleased to note that Fitzwilliam – and Commander Williams – had maintained his draconian training regime, even while the ship was at rest.  There was no way of knowing, after all, when the much-dreaded attack on the Sol System would materialise.  The Old Lady might have to move from her anchorage and go to war without any real warning.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said.  The bridge seemed to have something missing.  It took him a long moment before he realised that he was missing the bridge.  The compartment wasn't his any longer.  He looked towards the massive command chair, then kicked himself mentally.  It was Fitzwilliam’s command chair now.  “You didn't change the chair?”

“I thought it was part of history,” Fitzwilliam said.  “And I didn't want to change it.”

Ted nodded, feeling an odd lump in his throat.  The command chair hadn't been replaced since the carrier had last been on active duty.  He’d never felt the urge to replace it – and now, Fitzwilliam was right.  It was part of history.  One way or another, the Old Lady had definitely earned her place in the history books.  But would their writers be humans ... or aliens?  The war was far from over, even if the aliens had been suspiciously quiet for the last three months.  Ted knew the planning staff suspected the aliens were preparing a final offensive.  He tended to agree with them.

He followed Fitzwilliam into the ready room – it had once been Ted’s ready room – and sat down on the sofa.  When he'd been Captain, he’d slept in the room more than once, catching up on his sleep while remaining close to the bridge.  Now, he would have to sleep in the Admiral’s quarters near the CIC ... and he would never command the ship in combat again.  Indeed, even issuing commands to the crew could be construed as infringing on Fitzwilliam’s authority.  His lips twitched, remembering command exercises at the Academy.  They’d been warned, more than once, to try to avoid stepping on one another’s toes.

Fitzwilliam poured tea from a china teapot, then passed the cup over to Ted, who examined it with some interest.  The fine china was probably expensive enough to swallow half of his paycheck for the month, he decided, if it could be replaced at all.  It felt more like an antique than anything mundane – or Royal Navy issue.

“My ... one of my ancestors commanded a ship during the Second World War,” Fitzwilliam explained.  “His wife, who didn't have a very practical turn of mind, sent him this as a present, apparently in the expectation that he would find a use for it.  After he returned home, it was placed into storage.  My uncle thought I might find it useful.”

Ted had to smile.  “And what if it was destroyed?”

“I would presumably have other things to worry about,” Fitzwilliam said.  The younger – much younger – man leaned forward.  “How was Earth?”

“Mostly discussions about the aliens and their technology,” Ted said.  It had rapidly turned into a waste of time, at least for him.  He might have seen the technology in action, he might have a good idea of just how the aliens used it, but he knew nothing about how it actually worked.  The engineers could crack the secrets of the alien battlecruiser, given time, yet Ted himself couldn't help them.  “And speeches to every last part of the world.”

He made a face as he took another sip of tea.  The human race had been on an emotional rollercoaster since the dawn of the war – the First Interstellar War, as some wags were already calling it.  There had been the shock of first contact, the horror and terror after the Battle of New Russia, the delight when Ark Royal had won the first of her victories against the aliens ... the entire population seemed torn between hope and dread.  The future no longer seemed quite so full of promise.

“They gave you one of every medal in the world,” Fitzwilliam said.  “They must like you.”

Ted snorted.  It was an exaggeration, but not by much.  Every spacefaring power on Earth had given him a medal, including several that had never been awarded to foreigners beforehand.  Each award ceremony had forced him to make another speech, followed by answering questions about the Old Lady and the alien battlecruiser, half of which he couldn't answer.  It had almost been enough to drive him back to drink.

No, he told himself, firmly.  Fitzwilliam had risked his career to save Ted from the consequences of his drinking.  Ted would not let that go to waste.  I will not go back to the bottle.

“I think they just wanted someone to show off,” he said.  He placed the cup down on the table, then leaned forward.  “I got the basic engineering reports, of course, but I’d like to hear from you.  Are we ready to return to war?”

Fitzwilliam paused, contemplating his answer.  “I believe so,” he said.  “We have repaired the damaged armour, replaced the destroyed weapons and improved our defences.  We’ve mounted enemy-level plasma cannons on our hull, loaded new bomb-pumped laser missiles into the tubes ... in short, we’re as ready to go as possible.  All we really need are replacement flight crews.”

Ted nodded.  Half of Ark Royal’s surviving pilots had been reassigned, either to the Academy or other carriers that might soon be going into action.  They would be recalled, of course, or replaced, but until they arrived Ark Royal’s striking power would be very limited.  But then, compared to the rest of the fleet, she was practically an armoured colossus.  Her fighters, missiles and mass drivers gave her a striking power no modern carrier could match.

“I believe they will be reassigned here in a week or two,” Ted said.  He smiled, rather dryly.  “The Admiralty has been holding high-level discussions with the rest of the interstellar powers, considering our best course of action now the aliens seem to have been knocked back and taught to fear human weapons.  We may well be going on the offensive.”

Fitzwilliam smiled.  “That would be good,” he said.  “Better to wage war in their systems than ours.”

Ted nodded in agreement.  The aliens had occupied twelve human systems, three of them with large human populations.  Reports from the planetary surface suggested that the aliens were largely ignoring the humans, which was interesting.  They didn't seem inclined to either enslave the humans or exterminate them.  But they had wiped out the population of smaller mining colonies ...

He shrugged.  It was tempting to believe that the aliens were merely biding their time ... or, perhaps, that they’d realised they might not win the war after all and they’d decided not to commit any atrocities.  Or, perhaps, they had their own codes for treating prisoners of war, codes not too different from those followed by humanity.  After all, some human enemies had been downright barbaric to their prisoners.  It made the aliens look surprisingly civilised.

“There will be a ceremony in one week,” he said, changing the subject slightly.  “I believe we will be playing host to the Prime Minister himself, as well as a handful of foreign dignitaries.”

Fitzwilliam looked worried.  Ted didn't blame him.  A serving naval officer would understand that perfection was a hopeless pipe dream, but a politician without any military experience might question an unwashed deck or something else that looked slapdash.  It could ruin an officer’s career, no matter how promising it had seemed before the politicians boarded the ship.  But it couldn't be helped.  If nothing else, they would finally be briefed on whatever operation the joint command had had in mind since Ark Royal returned to the solar system.

“I’d better get on with preparing for their arrival,” Fitzwilliam said.  Politicians couldn't be fed naval rations, even though the crew had to make do with them.  They’d need to get some prepared food from Earth and perhaps hire an extra cook or two.  “Wonderful.”

“It could be worse,” Ted reminded him.  “We went from a laughing stock to the flagship of the fleet.  It's worth having a dinner with politicians to remind us that we’re no longer a joke.”

Fitzwilliam hesitated, then nodded in agreement.

Ted smiled.  “And how is Commander Williams shaping up?”

“I think I understand how you must have felt,” Fitzwilliam confessed.  “She’s brilliant, very capable ... and ambitious as hell.”

“A common failing,” Ted observed, dryly.  “But can she handle the job?”

“I believe so,” Fitzwilliam said.  “She isn't another Farley.”

“Good,” Ted said.  Abraham Farley had somehow managed to become XO of a carrier without revealing the soft panicky centre at his core.  But when there had been a nasty accident and he'd inherited command, he’d panicked and almost lost the entire starship.  “I think you should be fine.  But keep an eye on her anyway.  No one reveals what they are until they are truly tested.”

Chapter Two

“Getting what you want,” Captain James Montrose Fitzwilliam’s mother had once told him, “comes with a price.  You get what you want.”

It hadn't made any sense to James at the time.  Like most children, he’d liked the idea of getting what he wanted.  Sweets or chocolate when he was a young boy, a role in the school play or promotion in the Combined Cadet Force when he was older ... when he’d wanted something, he’d worked towards getting it.  But now, with the full weight of command settling around his shoulders, he understood precisely what his mother had meant.  He was solely responsible for Ark Royal and her crew.  If anything happened to his ship, he would bear full responsibility.

He stood and watched as the two shuttles settled down in the landing bay, one by one, feeling tension gripping at his heart.  He’d grown up in the aristocracy, he had plenty of experience dealing with men who’d inherited or earned their titles, yet he was also very aware that the aristocracy talked.  A mistake someone like Admiral Smith could shrug off would haunt James for the rest of his life.  But then, the aristocracy was supposed to be a cut above the common man.  The British Aristocracy had come far too close to extinction during the troubles and it had no intention of repeating the experience.

A dull thump echoed through the hull as the second shuttle landed, followed by a dull hiss that indicated the landing bay was being pressurised.  James waited until it was safe, then nodded to his small party and led the way into the landing bay.  They’d been told to keep the reception low-key, but that was relative.  There was no way a visit from the Prime Minister of Great Britain, the Vice President of the United States and several senior military officers could go completely unremarked.

James sucked in a breath as a handful of close-protection specialists poured out of the shuttle, glancing around as if they expected assassins to be hiding in the rear of the landing bay.  Not that he blamed them for being paranoid, he decided; world leaders were among the most important terrorist targets in the world, while the aliens themselves would certainly consider them legal targets.  His lips quirked in droll amusement at the thought.  If the aliens came after Ark Royal and her cargo of politicians, the close-protection specialists would be damn near useless.

He straightened up as the Prime Minister stepped out, followed by the Vice President.  Prime Minister Gordon Bryce was a tall, strikingly handsome man, something that would have impressed James more if he hadn't known that the politician had had his face carefully engineered to produce just the right impression on the voting public.  Behind him, Vice President Louis Mayo had the same basic idea, although it was clear that he’d blurred racial traits to make himself a man for all men.  The idealistic part of James wondered why people bothered with racism – in any form – when changing one’s skin colour was as easy as cutting one’s hair.  His more cynical side suspected that humans had never really needed an excuse to pick on other humans.

“Welcome onboard, Prime Minister,” he said, taking a step forward.  At least Bryce was a strong supporter of the military.  The opposition had been calling for cuts in the long-term expansion program for decades.  They’d gone remarkably quiet since Vera Cruz.  “And you, Mr. Vice President.”

“Louis is fine,” the Vice President said.  He had a relaxed air of informality that didn't fool James for a moment.  No one reached an elected position of such high authority without having a very sharp mind and a commendable degree of ruthlessness.  “I confess I’m very interested to see your ship.”

James smiled.  Ark Royal wasn't the oldest ship still in active service, but she was definitely the oldest starship operated by a major interstellar power.  She might have been outdated, she might have been as manoeuvrable as a wallowing pig, yet she had stood up to the aliens when every modern carrier that had tried to fight them had been ripped apart within seconds.  And she was pretty much unique.  The two American carriers that had been on a par with her had been scrapped long ago.

“I would be delighted to offer you a tour,” he replied.  “If you would like to follow me?”

He gave them the sanitized tour, giving them a brief tour of the ship without showing them anything particularly sensitive.  The politicians didn't seem to notice, although they asked a number of questions that James did his best to answer.  A couple of them related to the hit new series about reporters on carriers, something that made James want to roll his eyes in horror.  Clearly, now their tour of alien-controlled space was over, the reporters who’d shipped on Ark Royal were telling everyone at home how brave they’d been.

“I haven't watched an episode,” he admitted.  He had no plans to do so either, not if he could avoid it.  The last movie he’d watched that purported to show the Royal Navy in action had made so many errors that he’d snickered his way through the show.  “But I’m sure it helped encourage recruiting for the Royal Navy.”

They wound up in the Officer’s Mess, where the cooks had prepared a small meal.  There, they were joined by Admiral Smith and two of his staff, who briefly engaged the politicians in conversation while James took a moment to relax and curse the uniform designer under his breath.  It seemed to be a law of nature that dress uniforms were always uncomfortable as hell, particularly when someone could not afford to show discomfort.  When he was First Space Lord, James promised himself, he would have the uniform designed to be comfortable first and foremost.  Looking snappy could come second.

“I was surprised that you offered no alcohol,” one of the Prime Minister’s staffers said, as the overly-long meal came to an end.  “The Navy isn't dry, is it?”

“It's a gesture of respect to our American cousins,” James lied, smoothly.  It was true enough that the Americans banned alcohol on their starships – they probably had as many problems with illicit stills as the British – but the truth was different.  He didn't want to risk encouraging Admiral Smith to start drinking again.  “Besides, we will need clear heads for the briefing.”

“A sensible thought,” the First Space Lord agreed.  He lifted his glass of non-alcoholic wine from Mars and cleared his throat.  “Ladies and gentlemen, the King!”

There was a brief mutter as the toast was echoed, then the First Space Lord put his glass on the table and leaned forward.  “If you don’t mind,” he said, “time is pressing.”

“Certainly,” the Prime Minister said.  “Should we repair to the briefing room?”

James nodded, issued orders for the Officer’s Mess to be cleared, then led the way into the large briefing compartment.  It had seemed too large at first; now, with Ark Royal effectively the most important starship in the navy, it was too small to host everyone who might have to attend a briefing.  But there was enough room for the Prime Minister and his party.

The First Space Lord cleared his throat as soon as everyone had found a seat.  “As you know, the war appears to have stalemated,” he said, briskly.  “The aliens have made no attempt to expand their positions within human space, while we have been rather unsuccessful at liberating any of the star systems they have occupied.  We do not believe that this period of uneasy peace will endure.”

James nodded in agreement.  Humanity had been caught by surprise when the aliens first attacked, but that surprise was long gone.  Every major interstellar power was converting its industry to produce supplies for the war, while working out shared protocols for combined operations against the common foe.  If nothing else, the alien invasion had done wonders for humanity’s unity and technological development.  There were even rumours that the human race was on the verge of a colossal breakthrough in gravity-manipulation technology.

“Furthermore, attempts to open diplomatic relationships with the aliens have failed,” the First Space Lord continued.  “We know nothing about the alien society, from how they’re governed to what they want ... and why the war actually started.  In short, we appear committed to fighting to the bitter end.”

Admiral Smith leaned forward.  “There has been no progress with the alien prisoners?”

“None,” the First Space Lord said.  “Oh, the scientists tell me they’re making progress on unlocking their biology, but we haven’t been able to talk to them at all.  We can't tell if they’re deliberately refusing to talk or if we’re simply not getting the message across to them.”

He paused.  “Since your cruise through the New Russia system, we’ve kept pinging spy probes into the system to keep an eye on the aliens,” he continued.  “They have discovered that the aliens are massing a sizable force near the planet, including fifteen carriers and a number of ships of unknown capabilities.  Intelligence believes that the aliens intend to drive on Earth.  I don’t need to tell you, I think, that losing Earth would prove disastrous.”

James nodded.  Earth held roughly sixty percent of humanity’s industrial base.  Losing it would shorten the war significantly.  Worse, perhaps, it would also make it harder for the various human colonies to coordinate their actions with one another.  The aliens would be able to deal with them, one by one, after they recovered from taking Earth.  

The First Space Lord looked around the room.  “The Earth Defence Command has been considering the problem,” he said.  “It believes that the only way to deal with the threat is to go on the offensive and strike into alien space directly.  We can force them to react to us for a change.”

James met Admiral Smith’s eyes.  They’d been in alien-controlled space, but they knew next to nothing about its internal layout, let alone the location of the alien industrial nodes and their homeworld.  And it was impossible to escape the feeling that the aliens knew everything about humanity’s star systems.  Their assault on humanity had neatly isolated a number of smaller colonies and taken New Russia out of the game.

“Lieutenant Phipps will brief you,” the First Space Lord concluded.

Lieutenant Harold Phipps stood up and took control of the display system.  He was a surprisingly young man, but there was a definite hint of intelligence in his eyes.  James guessed that Phipps had shown a talent for intelligence work in the Academy and had been fast-tracked into either Naval Intelligence or MI6.  James disliked intelligence officers on principle, but he resolved to give Phipps a chance to prove himself.  Besides, it wasn’t as if they had much else to go on.

“My department has been taking the lead on analysing the computers on the alien starship you captured,” Phipps said, bluntly.  “It has been an incredibly frustrating experience.  Parts of the system are badly damaged, probably through an attempted core purge, while other parts are completely incompatible with our technology.  Recovering data has been a long slow process.”

James snorted.  “We managed to get their drive to work,” he pointed out.

“Their starship drive technology is advanced, but it isn't that different from our own,” Phipps explained.  “The basic principles are the same as ours, merely ... expanded a little.  Their computers, on the other hand, are very different.  Most of our attempts to read their computer cores have resulted in failure or output we are unable to understand.  We believe that they actually use a holographic matrix rather than ...”

The First Space Lord cleared his throat, loudly.

Phipps looked embarrassed.  “Sorry,” he apologised.  “I get too enthusiastic at times.”

He paused, then went on.  “Two weeks ago, we had a breakthrough,” he said.  “We managed to pull some navigational data out of the computer, then compare it to our own database of stellar locations and projected tramlines.  What we ended up with, I believe, is a chart of tramlines linking alien space together.”

Admiral Smith coughed.  “You believe?”

“It matches up with our projections,” Phipps explained.  “And some of the navigational data is definitely linked to human space.  We don't know if they obtained the data from the Heinlein Colony or they ran projections comparable to ours, but we believe we now have an idea of the layout of their territory.”

He keyed a switch.  A holographic starchart appeared in front of them.  “This is Alien-1,” Phipps said, “where the first set of POWs were captured.  As you can see, the tramlines follow Ark Royal’s course as she retreated from the system, then captured the alien battlecruiser here.  But other tramlines lead further into alien space.  In particular, this system caught our attention.”

James blinked in surprise.  The star, if the projections were accurate, held nine tramlines leading to other stars.  Unless the alien economy was significantly different from humanity’s – and nothing they’d seen suggested that was true – the system would be vitally important to the aliens.  After all, Britannia held five tramlines and collecting transit fees made up a healthy percentage of the British Government’s revenue.

“It is our belief that this system represents a major alien settlement, at the very least,” Phipps continued.  “Even if it didn't, it would still be vitally important to them.  Blocking the system and destroying whatever settlements are there would be a major strike against them.”

“I understand,” Admiral Smith said.  “You want us to attack the system.”

He sounded irked.  It took James a moment to realise that his commanding officer hadn't been in the loop until now.  The staff at Nelson Base had done the preliminary planning without bothering to alert the officer who would be commanding the mission.  It was, at the very least, thoughtless and stupid.  He made a mental note to raise the issue with his uncle as soon as possible, then looked up at the display.  If the aliens truly ruled all that territory, he decided, they controlled territory over nine times the size of humanity’s territory.  The implications were downright alarming.

The Prime Minister smiled.  “It will be a joint operation,” he said.  “But you will be in command.”

“Yes,” the First Space Lord said.  “We have opened high-level discussions with various interstellar powers.  The Americans” – he nodded to the Vice President – “have already agreed to make a major commitment.  We expect both the French and the Chinese to make commitments of their own.  The Russians ... are tapped out by the war.  It is unlikely they will produce more than a token contribution.”

“They lost half of their industry when New Russia fell,” Admiral Smith commented.  “It is unlikely they will agree to risk their remaining forces.”

“Indeed,” the First Space Lord said.  He nodded towards the display.  “The objective is simple; take the enemy system, if possible.  You will have a major ground-pounding element attached to the fleet.  If not, rip the industries apart and then fall back as quickly as you can, before the aliens manage to mousetrap you.  We imagine they will be very unhappy to see you in their rear.”

Admiral Smith frowned.  “I have a question,” he said.  “How do you intend us to get there without fighting our way through successive alien-held systems?”

James held his breath.  The question had occurred to him too.

“We have been able to reconfigure the FTL drives on modern starships to make use of alien tramlines,” the First Space Lord said.  “Ark Royal herself will have a ... system attached to her that will allow the same capability.  Instead of proceeding through known tramlines, you will proceed in a roundabout course that shouldn't take you anywhere near an economically viable system.”

Admiral Smith and James exchanged glances.  It was true enough that some systems were just useless for anything other than transit points, but the aliens would almost certainly picket them anyway, just to make sure no one tried to sneak in through the backdoor.  Humanity might have been caught by surprise by the alien FTL technology, yet the aliens wouldn't make the same mistake themselves.  Come to think of it, he knew, quite a few such systems were settled by outcast groups that wanted nothing to do with the rest of humanity.  The aliens might have similar groups in their territory.

“It does have its risks,” the First Space Lord conceded.  “But this might be our best chance to hit the enemy right where it hurts.”

He paused, then nodded to the Prime Minister.  “The fleet will be assembled over the next fortnight,” he said.  “Once the fleet is ready, we can launch the operation at once.”

“We will need to train and exercise together,” Admiral Smith said.  “Even now, there are differences in our operational protocols.  We can’t afford a communications breakdown in the heat of battle.”

“You’ll have all the time you want,” the Prime Minister said.  “I don’t think I need to tell you, any of you, that this is immensely important.  We cannot afford a defeat.”

James nodded, silently admiring the man’s nerve.  Sending even a small number of carriers to take the offensive risked denuding the defences of Earth.  If the operation failed, or the aliens mounted their own offensive before they realised that Ark Royal was in their rear, it could get very sticky.  He had a feeling that quite a few politicians had argued for an attack on New Russia instead.  But, at best, that would only liberate the planet.  It wouldn't threaten the alien homeworlds.

“We won’t let you down,” Admiral Smith said.  James knew him well enough to tell that he wasn't as confident as he sounded.  Even if everything went according to plan the operation would still be very tricky to pull off successfully.  “Does the operation have a name?”

The First Space Lord smiled.  “Operation Nelson,” he said.  “I thought it was fitting.”

Chapter Three

“They look so young,” Squadron Commander Rose Labara muttered.

Wing Commander Kurt Schneider couldn't disagree as he watched the trainees filing into the hall.  A handful were older, merchant crewmen who had volunteered for service with the Royal Navy, but the remainder looked as though they should still be in school.  He knew, intellectually, that the youngest of them were eighteen years old, yet his mind refused to grasp it.  The boys looked barely old enough to shave, the girls looked as though they should be more interested in dresses and makeup than flying starfighters against the enemies of humanity.

He shook his head, feeling old.  His son was seventeen and planning to join the Royal Navy next year; his daughter was only a couple of years younger.  Kurt himself was old enough to have fathered most of the trainees; he’d steered them through the compressed training sessions, knowing that many of them would be dead before the end of the year.  The Royal Navy had lost a third of its pre-war pilots in the war, including many Kurt had known personally.  There was no reason to believe that it would improve in the years to come.

Oh, they’d learned a great deal about their enemy, he knew.  They knew how the aliens fought, they knew how to counter alien tactics and technology ... and yet there was still a quiet nagging doubt.  The aliens had proven themselves to be cunning and deadly foes.  Kurt suspected their recent inactivity was not through caution, but a desire to make sure they held the advantage once again before they started their advance on Earth.  When they came, and they would, many of the young men and women in front of him would die.

He cast his eyes over the trainees sitting in the front row, the trainees who had scored the highest in simulation flying.  Sonny, a young man with an unerring knack for pulling off impossible shots; David, a merchant crewman who made up in experience what he lacked in polish; Sandra, a young girl with a flair that impressed even Rose ... and Charles Augustus, a young man with a permanent scowl on his face, yet possessing remarkable determination to crash through the course and win his flight wings.  He’d earned them, Kurt conceded, and yet there was something about Augustus’s attitude that bothered him.  Despite being his superior, he still knew almost nothing about the young man.

Rose elbowed him.  “It's time,” she said.  “Go speak to them, sir.”

Kurt nodded and stepped up onto the stage.  Five hundred pairs of eyes peered at him as he cleared his throat, wishing – once again – that he was better at giving speeches.  The trainees didn't know it, but the ceremony they’d earned had been cut short, just like the rest of their training.  They deserved better, he knew, yet they wouldn't get it.  There were few resources available to mark their graduation in the midst of a war.

The Queen came to my graduation, he thought, sourly.  But there are no Royals here.

“Three months ago, you entered the Academy,” he said.  Over two thousand prospective pilots had entered the academy; three-fourths of them had washed out.  He wasn't sure if he should be relieved the compressed system was still excluding the unsuitable or worried that they were expelling pilots who would overcome their flaws, given time.  “Now, you have qualified as pilots.  Your assignments to carriers or orbital support bases are already being selected for you.”

A low ripple ran through the gathered trainees.  They’d been told, in no uncertain terms, that they wouldn't be true pilots until they graduated.  Now, with the course almost over, they could look forward to having their wings pinned to their uniforms and call themselves pilots.

“But you are still very young, very inexperienced,” Kurt continued.  “You have not had the recommended number of hours in actual starfighters, no matter how many hours you have spent in the simulators.  You have faced thousands of simulated aliens, yet you have faced no real danger during your training.  And you have missed out on countless elements of the pre-war training program, everything from naval protocol to naval history.

“You will be assigned to units commanded by officers who have had all of that,” he explained.  “They will also have had considerable experience with actually risking their lives in combat against the aliens.  You would be well advised to learn from them, all of you, and not think that you are immortal and invincible.  Because, I assure you, the aliens will happily take advantage of any overconfidence you happen to show.

“You have all done well,” he added.  “Your presence here proves that, as I think you know.  But you have a long way to go.”

He smiled at them.  “Enough of that, for the moment,” he concluded.  “If the first row would like to form an orderly line ...?”

Rose passed him the bag as the front row lined up, producing a ragged line that looked alarmingly unprofessional. Kurt sighed inwardly – standards were definitely slipping – and then opened the bag, revealing the first set of flying wings.  His own set were prominently mounted on his shoulder, a memento of his days in the Academy.  No matter what happened, he knew, they could not be legally taken from him.  Ideally, they would be passed down to his children after he died.

“Form a proper line,” Kurt said, in some irritation.  “And try to remember to salute your senior officers when you meet them.”

He sighed at the thought.  Military protocol, no matter what the civilians thought, was important.  It helped to build up both discipline and comradeship between officers and enlisted crewmen.  But the new pilots were very hazy on the finer points of protocol.  A number of them had had to practice saluting for weeks before they had it down to a fine art, while their responses were often wrong or badly out of place.  They meant well, he knew, but they were going to have a rough time of it.  At least the discipline problems had been weeded out early in the training period.

“Congratulations,” he said, as Sonny stepped up to Kurt.  He pinned the wings to Sonny’s shoulder, then shook the young man’s hand.  “I believe your assignment is waiting for you.”

Sonny’s eyes went wide.  “A carrier?”

“Wait and see,” Kurt said.  Ideally, he would have preferred not to send any of the trainees to a carrier, not when they lacked true experience.  But no one had bothered to ask his opinion, nor would it have mattered in any case.  The Royal Navy was desperately short of pilots.  “I think you will serve well, wherever you go.”

The next few pilots passed without a hitch, then Augustus arrived.  Kurt pinned the wings to his shoulder, then blinked in surprise as Augustus leaned forward to whisper in his ear.  “I earned this, didn't I?”

Kurt eyed him, puzzled.  “You passed the course,” he said, dryly.  Augustus was an odd young man, definitely.  He had a chip on his shoulder, yet Kurt had never seen anyone more driven to succeed.  “You earned your wings through your own efforts.”

Augustus smiled openly – the first time Kurt had ever seen such an undisguised expression on his face – and almost skipped off the stage, back to the rear of the compartment.  Kurt watched him go, then turned to the next trainee and carefully pinned her wings on her shoulder, putting Augustus out of his mind.  He would be his commanding officer’s problem, Kurt knew.  However, he was confident that Augustus would do well, even if he did lack spit and polish.

It took nearly two hours to pin the wings on all of the new pilots, but he wouldn't have passed the duty on to anyone else, even if they’d offered him a million pounds.  Finally, it was over, leaving a roomful of newly-minted pilots staring at him.  Judging by their expressions, they weren't in the mood for a long speech.  Kurt smiled as he cleared his throat.  He wasn't in any mood for a long speech either.

“Congratulations,” he said.  “I believe that you have been cleared for three days of leave prior to departing for your assignments.  As someone old enough to be your father” – there were some nervous titters from the pilots – “I should warn you that Luna is full of pitfalls, ready to snare unwary young idiots.  If you should happen to be planning a jaunt to Sin City, I suggest you make damn sure you can get back to the Academy if necessary.  And I strongly suggest you check their health certificates before you get into bed with anyone.”

He had to smile at some of the guilty looks.  Sin City was a semi-independent state, dedicated to drinking, gambling and prostitution.  There were few laws and even fewer morals, ensuring that anyone who went there with an open mind was rapidly enjoying whatever pleasure he wanted.  Kurt had been once, as a young pilot, and enjoyed himself more than he cared to admit.  Now, as a father of two, he would prefer to watch as Sin City burned.  But he couldn't deny his pilots the right to choose their own entertainment.

“I would also suggest that you make sure you are not late to your first assignments,” he added.  “It would make a very bad impression on your first commander – and while your records here are sealed, your active duty records are not.”

He paused.  “Good luck, all of you,” he said.  “Dismissed!”

The pilots cheered, then stampeded out of the room.  Kurt rolled his eyes – yep, they were definitely planning to visit Sin City – and then turned to look at the terminal Rose held out to him.  After a moment, he pressed his thumb against the scanner, certifying that five hundred new pilots had just graduated.  For the moment, his duties at the Academy had come to an end.

“We short-changed them, sir,” Rose said.  On duty, she was always professional.  “They deserved a bigger ceremony.”

“I know,” Kurt said, recalling his earlier thoughts.  Pre-war ceremonies had been something to see, even for enlisted crewmen.  Senior officers made an effort to attend, either as participants or just silent observers.  But now ... now, it was just him and his team of training officers.  No senior officer had even attempted to attend.  “It couldn’t be helped.”

He gave her a sidelong look, feeling his breath catch in his throat.  She was beautiful, even with her blonde hair cut short.  Their affair might have been born in tension and the shared certainty of death, but it had endured even after their return to Earth.  He felt guilty, sometimes, yet he couldn't stop himself from touching her.  His wife’s face had faded in his memory.

Rose seemed unaware of his thoughts, thankfully.  “Do you think we’ll be assigned to the next training cycle?”

“I hope not,” Kurt said.  He’d split their time between training prospective pilots and training other instructors from the major interstellar powers, sharing the lessons of war with them.  They’d improved remarkably over the last two months.  “I’ve applied to go back to war.”

The thought caused him another pang of guilt.  He’d accepted the assignment to the Luna Academy without a fight because it would have brought him closer to his family.  But his wife had declined to move to the moon, citing the dangers of alien bombardment, leaving him as isolated as he’d been in deep space.  He’d barely been able to see them once or twice since his assignment had begun.  The only advantage was that he could record messages for them and receive replies within the same day.

“Me too,” Rose admitted.  She paused.  “Was I as bad as some of these trainees?”

Kurt shrugged as he led her away from the hall and headed down towards Officer Country, where they slept when they weren't supervising the barracks.  “I haven't seen your training records,” he reminded her.  “Were you as bad as the idiot who managed to block the toilet and force us to have it fixed?  Or the one who decided to play pranks on the occupants of the other barracks?  Or the one who ...”

Rose giggled.  “I was just an overachiever,” she said.  “But I had six months to straighten out and fly right.”

“Good for you,” Kurt said.  By the time Rose had entered the Academy, he remembered with yet another pang of guilt, he'd already left active service.  She wasn't quite young enough to be his daughter, but she was alarmingly close to it.  “And you did well with the trainees too.”

“Thank you,” Rose said.  “I don’t think I was quite that hard to handle when I was a trainee.”

Kurt laughed as he stopped outside the hatch leading into his quarters.  “When I was eighteen,” he quoted, “my dad was a moron who knew nothing.  But when I was twenty-one ... golly!  It was astonishing how smart the old man had become.”

He sobered as he led her into the chamber.  Life in barracks was never easy, but it was often worse for female trainees.  There was almost no privacy at all, while the shared washing facilities took some getting used to.  Indeed, a quarter of the trainees who had been evicted in the first week had been booted out for ogling their female comrades.  It was a regular shock to politicians, when they found out that men and women were living together, but there was no choice.  Quarters on starships, even the mighty fleet carriers, were no larger.  Rose had done well in helping new trainees to grow used to their surroundings.  By now, most of the trainees were thoroughly professional.

It’s that stupid movie’s fault, he thought, rolling his eyes.  They just couldn't make a realistic movie, could they?  No, the main character had to have muscles on his muscles ... and his female co-lead had to wear a uniform so tight she couldn't breathe.

His terminal bleeped as he sat down, so he pulled it over as Rose poured them both a glass of wine.  He’d expected a message from his daughter – she was actually doing better in school, now they’d hired a nanny – but instead it was his orders.  He hesitated, unsure if he wanted to read them, then cursed his own stupidity as he opened the file and read through the brief message.

“I’m being sent back to Ark Royal as Commander Air Group,” he said, relieved.  Requesting a change of assignment was always hazardous, even though he was one of the few officers with experience at fighting the aliens.  The Royal Navy had plenty of places to send officers who had displeased the bureaucracy in some way.  “And just as CAG this time.”

“So you won’t be flying,” Rose said, regretfully.  “I always thought it kept you closer to us.”

“I’ll try and sneak in as many hours as I can,” Kurt said.  The pace of combat was often shockingly swift.  It was quite possible that the CAG would be reduced to a spectator while his pilots fought and died to protect their starship.  “There will be new fighters too, it seems.  And bombers.”

“Curious,” Rose said.  “Do you think that means they’ve improved the torpedo systems?”

Kurt shrugged.  The pre-war bombers hadn't been designed to face alien plasma weaponry and the one attempt to test pre-war doctrine against the aliens had resulted in a horrific failure.  Their torpedoes were simply not capable of breaking through enemy point defence systems, even if they fired a massive salvo.  But now, if the system had been improved ...

“We’ll find out, I guess,” he said, reviewing the message again.  “I’ve got two days of leave on Earth, then I have orders to report to Ark Royal prior to the arrival of new pilots.  And apparently I’m expected to brush up on international relations too.”

Rose gave him a puzzled look.  “International relations?”

“That's what it says,” Kurt said, swinging the terminal round so she could see the message.  “But not much else.”

“They probably want us to go into battle with allies,” Rose suggested, after a moment.  “The Royal Navy can't bear the brunt of offensive operations on its own.”

Kurt nodded, sourly.  The loss of two modern carriers at New Russia had cost the Royal Navy dearly.  Given that it took at least three years to build a modern carrier – and longer, if they wanted to add heavy armour – those ships would not be replaced any time soon.  If humanity wanted to go on the offensive, it would have to be a joint operation.

He took a sip of his wine.  “And your own orders?”

“Probably waiting for me,” Rose said.  “I’ll look at them later, afterwards.”

She put the glass down and leaned forward to kiss his lips.  Kurt hesitated, tasting the wine on her lips, then kissed her back.  Part of him cursed himself angrily – what had started as a fling before certain death had become something more – while the rest of him urged that he move forward as fast as possible.  His hand reached up to feel her breast, straining against her uniform.  Slowly, he undid the zippers, allowing them to spring free ...

Afterwards, when she had showered and left, he felt torn in two.  He felt deeply for her, yet he also felt deeply for his children.  How could he hurt them by having an affair?  At best, there would be a divorce; at worst, a long bitter court case.  And he might well lose his career in the crossfire.

You’re a fucking idiot, he told himself, as he scrambled to his feet and headed towards the shower.  You should never have gotten involved with her.

But now, he knew, he could never bring himself to break it up.

A moment later, his terminal bleeped.  It was a message from Rose, informing him that she had been assigned back to Ark Royal too.  Kurt stared at it with mixed emotions, then turned and stepped into the shower.  Perhaps cold water would make him feel better.

“Yep,” he muttered out loud.  “Definitely a fucking idiot.”

Chapter Four

“I couldn't help noticing,” Ted said, as he stepped into the First Space Lord’s groundside office, “that London seems to be darker these days.”

The First Space Lord nodded as they shook hands, then waved Ted and Fitzwilliam to chairs facing his desk.  “Between the war and the government’s emigration policy,” he said, “the city has lost quite a bit of its population.  People are thinking that they might be safer well away from large cities.”

Ted nodded.  The government, which owned the entire Britannia System, had been offering very generous settlement grants to prospective emigrants.  If they chose to take the government’s offer, they would be assigned land on Britannia to develop how they chose or a homestead among the asteroid belts.  The policy, he knew, had helped swell the new colony world’s population remarkably.  In the long run, the projections suggested, Britannia would expand rapidly.  The planet’s birthrate was already considerably higher than its founding country’s birthrate.  

Probably end up with another revolution on our hands, he thought, cynically.  Britannia already had representation in the Houses of Parliament – there was no point in repeating the mistakes that helped start the American Revolution – but some of its settlers wanted more autonomy.  But they already had more than anywhere else in Britain, being so isolated from the mainstream.

He pushed the thought aside as the First Space Lord placed his fingertips together.  “You’ll be pleased to know that we have a rough idea of Task Force Nelson’s size and composition,” he said.  “Apart from Ark Royal herself, the Royal Navy will be providing two modified bulk freighters that will serve as escort carriers.  Each one can carry and support a squadron of starfighters, giving you some additional punch.  There will also be nine frigates that will provide an escort for the fleet.

“In addition, the Americans have volunteered three carriers, while the French and Japanese are providing one apiece.  The Americans will also be providing the lion’s share of the ground combat element.  This means, I'm afraid, that they’ve demanded the right to nominate both your deputy and the ground combat commander.  Under the circumstances, we can’t really argue.”

“They’re providing three carriers,” Ted mused.  “I’m surprised they didn't demand overall command as well.”

“Luckily for us, you’re a hero in America,” the First Space Lord said, dryly.  “And both the Chinese and Japanese refused to serve under American command.  I doubt the French were too enthusiastic about serving under our command, but they’re bringing only one carrier to the party.”

Ted wasn't surprised.  While Britannia and Washington were on the other side of Earth from New Russia, New France and Edo were both closer to the front lines.  Cutting loose a carrier apiece had to have worried their defence planners, even if they did want to make the joint defence of humanity’s space work.  Battles had been won or lost before, based on the presence or absence of a single ship.

“So we’ll have six carriers,” Ted mused.

“The Americans and Chinese are both sending twelve frigates,” the First Space Lord added.  “In addition, there will be a large transport element for the ground troops and the fleet train.  You should be capable of sustaining your operations for close to a year before returning to human space.”

“Assuming there’s any human space left to return to,” Ted said, darkly.  “Where do we stand on new weapons and starships?”

“We’ve finally managed to get a design worked out for a battleship,” the First Space Lord said, “one armed to the teeth with mass drivers and missile tubes.  But we’re looking at around two years before the first one can enter service.  By then, we should have standardized technology throughout human space, allowing our ships and components to become interchangeable.  As for modified carriers ...”

He shrugged.  “Building another Ark Royal seems a waste of time,” he added.  “But we have a plan for a carrier that combines the best of Ark with the modern designs.  Still, we’re looking at two to three years before we have a working model.  We’re sheathing the modern carriers in armour in the hopes of providing some additional protection.”

“That will be interesting to watch,” Ted mused.  “How well does it work?”

“It should give them some protection,” the First Space Lord said.  “But it hasn't really been tested in combat.”

“Nor were the modern carriers,” Ted pointed out.  The designs had looked good, on paper, and he had to admit that they were faster and more capable than Ark Royal.  But their lack of armour had doomed them when the aliens had attacked.  “And starfighters?”

“We’re finalising a unified starfighter class for humanity’s starships,” the First Space Lord informed him.  “The best of British, American and Japanese technology, combined with everything we’ve learned about our enemies in months of war.  Ideally, we should be able to operate from other carriers and vice versa once the starfighters enter service.”

Ted nodded.  Some components and supplies from different nations were compatible, but others couldn't be forced to work together for love or money.  An American carrier might not be able to handle British starfighters and vice versa.  If that problem could be fixed, the number of deployable carriers would rise rather sharply.  He made a mental note to ensure that supplies were passed around, particularly French or Japanese supplies.  It wouldn't do to lose the starfighters if they lost the carriers.

“The good news is that we finally have a working plasma system of our own,” the First Space Lord added.  “But you can read about that in your briefing notes.”

“I hope it doesn't have the same problems as the alien systems,” Ted said.  Fitzwilliam had already briefed him on the new systems – and their limitations.  “We used EMP to disable them, once upon a time.”

“It does,” the First Space Lord confirmed grimly.  “We won’t be switching completely to plasma weapons, even if we could afford it.  We’ll be keeping both old and new systems for quite some time.”

He leaned back in his chair.  “I have every faith in you, Admiral Smith, to handle the international aspects of the mission without problems,” he said.  “We cannot afford to lose this war.”

Ted couldn't disagree.  The one conflict humanity had engaged in after the discovery of the tramlines had been brief, with nothing more than a few shots fired before the diplomats had sorted out a peace treaty.  Now, humanity faced a foe with unknown motives, but the evidence suggested that – at best – the aliens intended to deny space to the human race.  And, at worst, they might have extermination in mind.

“Yes, sir,” he said.  He, Fitzwilliam and Lieutenant Lopez had gone over the intelligence summaries with a very critical eye.  They hadn't been able to find anything that disproved the suggestion that the multi-tramline nexus would be important to the aliens.  But there was a difference between knowing the base was there and being able to reach it.  “We won’t let you down.”

He wondered, suddenly, just how many doubts the First Space Lord had about him personally.  There was no denying that he’d been a drunkard, or that he still felt the urge to take a drink from time to time.  Medical treatment had helped with that, of course, removing the addiction that had driven him forwards – and so had the fact he’d found something useful to do with his life.  But there was a vast difference between commanding an old carrier and a fleet of six carriers, only one of them British.  How tempted had the Admiralty been, he asked himself, to suggest to the Americans that there would be no resistance if they demanded command of the operation?

“I'm glad to hear it,” the First Space Lord said.  He paused, then leaned forward.  “There are, however, political issues involved.  Local political issues.”

Ted exchanged glances with Fitzwilliam, who looked blank.  On one hand, this war had few political issues; the aliens weren't inclined to talk, so it was kill or be killed.  But, on the other hand, support for the war depended on local politics, both in Britain and all over the world.  If the general population believed the war was lost ...

The First Space Lord smiled, humourlessly.  “Have you been following the debate in the online forums?”

“No,” Ted said.  Earth’s datanet didn't even reach to the moon, let alone Ark Royal’s current anchorage.  Even when he'd been on Earth, he’d had no time to browse the forums.  “What sort of debate?”

Fitzwilliam cleared his throat.  “The one about Prince Henry?

“Indeed,” the First Space Lord said.

He met Ted’s eyes.  “Prince Henry has ... for want of a better word ... pushed his way into the accelerated starfighter training program,” he said.  “It was always his ambition to become a starfighter pilot, continuing the proud tradition of the younger scions of the Royal Family serving in the military.  However, when it was agreed that he could attend the Academy, there wasn't actually a war on.”

Ted blinked in surprise.  “We didn't start running the accelerated training program until after the war had started,” he said.  “How ...?”

“There were ... political issues,” the First Space Lord conceded.  He spread out his hands, grimly.  “Put bluntly, Admiral, there is a strong feeling among the general public that the Royal Family should take part in the war.  At the same time, with the position of the Prince ... uncertain, quite a few officers were resistant to placing him in actual danger.  In the end, he effectively forced Buckingham Palace to give him a chance to train under an assumed name.”

Ted had spent far too much of his career on Ark Royal, but he knew something of the tangled politics surrounding the Prince.  Prince Henry was the firstborn son of King Charles IV, but he wasn't the firstborn child.  Technically, being born male jumped him ahead of his sister in the line of succession.  The law was ancient, but it had never actually been taken off the books.  Traditionalists insisted that Prince Henry was the first in line to the throne.  On the other hand, it was the 23rd Century.  Why should the Prince succeed his father when he was not the firstborn child?

“What a mess,” he said.  “How did he force the Palace to concede the point?”

“He threatened to publically abdicate his position,” the First Space Lord said.  “I do not believe he enjoyed a very happy childhood.”

“No,” Fitzwilliam agreed.  “He would have no privacy at all, would he?”

“There have been scandals,” the First Space Lord agreed.  “Nothing major, nothing we would hold against anyone else, but in his position ... well, it makes the monarchy look bad.”

Ted frowned.  “As interesting as this is,” he said, “what does it actually have to do with us?”

The First Space Lord looked embarrassed.  “The Prince has managed to get himself assigned to Ark Royal,” he explained.  “Still under a false name ...”

Ted stared at him.  “Sir,” he said, “you do realise there’s a very good chance that we may lose him?”

“I know,” the First Space Lord confessed.  “But we are in a very poor position.”

“No, we’re not,” Ted said, firmly.  “He’s an officer in the Royal Navy.  His job is to follow orders.  Assign him to a home defence squadron, if he must fly starfighters, either here or on Britannia.  And, if he makes a fuss about it, tell him we can send him to an isolated mining camp instead.”

“It isn't that simple,” Fitzwilliam said.  He looked up at the First Space Lord.  “Is it?”

“No,” the First Space Lord said.  He produced a sheet of papers and passed them over to Ted, who flicked through them carefully.  “His scores at the Academy were very good – and, as he was under a false name, there was no risk of favouritism.  I believe his training instructors included a few of your former crewmen.  There are no grounds for denying him an assignment to a carrier that won’t stink when they are dragged out into the public eye.  And I am damn sure, Admiral, that they will be dragged out.  The media will make sure of it.”

“Operational security,” Ted muttered.  The scores were very good.  Poor marks for discipline, he noted, but nothing bad enough to merit being booted out of the training program.  “Tell them we don’t give out personnel details and leave it at that, sir.”

“It won’t work, not for the Prince,” the First Space Lord said.  He sighed.  “You know, I believe, just how close the monarchy and the aristocracy came to being legislated out of existence.  Right now, the Royal Family cannot afford to look like they’re shirking their share of the military burden.  Perhaps, if he'd started when he’d intended to start, it wouldn't be such a problem.  Now, even if we rated him as such a high performer we could justify assigning him to a training slot, Ted, it would look very bad.  There would be questions asked in the Houses of Parliament – both Houses of Parliament.”

He shrugged.  “I can't see the remainder of the aristocracy taking it lightly either,” he added.  “People like Captain Fitzwilliam” – he indicated the Captain with one hand – “take the same risks as everyone else in the Royal Navy.  Aristocratic rank sometimes serves as an entree, but it isn't allowed to take someone further than they deserve.  But this ... it could undermine the monarchy itself.”

“But if we put him on Ark Royal,” Ted noted, “we run the risk of losing the heir to the throne.  There is no way we could protect him if the aliens came swarming, sir.”

The First Space Lord sighed, again.  “Then we have a solution to the problem of just which of the King’s children will inherit the throne,” he said, coldly.  “Between the Prince’s determination to do something useful with his life, something he earned on his own merits, and the political problems involved in preventing him from serving on the front lines, we have been backed into a corner.  The Prince must serve on Ark Royal.”

Ted managed – somehow – to keep from muttering something uncomplimentary under his breath.  The tradition of aristocrats changing their features and assuming false names to serve in the military was relatively new, but it made sure that the training officers and drill instructors didn't know their charges were anything other than common recruits.  Anything they earned, they earned on their own merits.  And if they got booted out, no one raised a fuss.  There were plenty of places to exile unworthy aristocrats too.

But losing the Prince, even if he wasn't supposed to know the Prince was serving under his command, would be more than a little embarrassing.  No doubt the politicians, having created the problem in the first place, would swoop down like vultures, trying hard to place the blame on the sitting government.  In turn, the government would blame the Royal Navy – and Ted, the officer who had been in command at the time.  There was no way he could see it working out well, yet he knew there was no way out, short of resigning his commission.  And he couldn't bring himself to do that, not when the Navy was his life.

“Fine,” he said.  He knew his tone was disrespectful and didn't really care.  “But he won’t get any special treatment.”

“I believe that is what he wants,” the First Space Lord said, mildly.  “No special treatment at all.”

He paused for a long moment.  “I understand how you feel about this,” he added.  “And I will try to minimise any ... interference from other parties.”

Ted nodded, sourly.

“One good thing from all of this,” the First Space Lord added.  “You can bar reporters from Ark Royal.”

“Good,” Ted said, remembering the reporters he’d been saddled with during the first advance into alien-held space.  The best of them had had some experience as an embed, fortunately, but the others had been idiots.  He was still mildly surprised none of them had actually managed to kill themselves during the voyage.  “Can I bar them from the entire operation?”

“I believe there may be some American embeds on the American carriers,” the First Space Lord said.  “But you don’t have to say anything to them if you don’t want to.”

“An excellent bribe,” Ted said, lightly.

“I know exactly how you feel,” the First Space Lord said.  “I’ve tried to find the Prince an assignment that looks dangerous, but with very little real danger.  I found nothing that would pass muster with the media, let alone their tame military experts.  There’s no politically acceptable alternative.”

“I understand,” Ted said.  He looked at Fitzwilliam, then back at the First Space Lord.  “If he wants to be anonymous, that’s precisely what he will get.  His identity will not be disclosed any further.”

“Good,” the First Space Lord said.

He smiled, changing the subject.  “I believe the remainder of your fleet will assemble by the end of the week,” he said.  “I will expect a full report after you meet with your new subordinates.”

“Yes, sir,” Ted said.  At least his new subordinates wouldn't be princes in disguise.  “I’ll keep you informed.”

He paused.  “Are there any other surprises for me?”

“None,” the First Space Lord said.  “You can go see your family, if you wish, or enjoy a brief walk around London before you return to your ship.  I believe there are some people waiting to see you, Captain Fitzwilliam.  You should talk to them before you go for a wander yourself.”

Ted scowled, catching the underlying subtext.  The First Space Lord hadn't said it out loud, but the conclusion was very clear.  It might be his last chance to see London before he died.

Maybe I’ll go take a look at Buckingham Palace, he thought.  He’d been there twice since his return to Earth, both times for award ceremonies he would have preferred to avoid.  See what the Prince is trying to escape.

Chapter Five

It was a curious aspect of British Governance, James reflected, that backroom deals often took place before either the media or the public caught wind of them.  Given the complicated balance of power between the monarchy, the aristocracy and the democratically-elected government, all parties tried hard to avoid putting any public strain on the system and tended to come to compromise agreements before making the debate public.  The system had come close to collapse more than once, but since the troubles it had steered Britain through some very rough waters indeed.

He smiled as he stepped into the private room and caught sight of his Uncle Winchester, seated in a chair and studying the menu.  The older man had been a great inspiration to him in his youth; he’d served in the Royal Navy, then gone onwards into the government.  Even now, his mind was as sharp as ever.  Perhaps, James considered, too sharp.  His uncle had put him in a very awkward spot when James had been assigned to Ark Royal.

“Ah, James,” Winchester said.  “Take a seat, please, and order something for yourself.  My treat.”

James obeyed, picking up the menu and running his eye down the list of meals.  None of them, he noted, had a price tag attached, a sure sign that they were staggeringly expensive.  But then, the club principally catered to aristocrats, wealthy businessmen who would be invited into the aristocracy sooner or later and government ministers.  It was unlikely in the extreme that someone would enter its hallowed halls without the ability to barely notice the price.

“Steak and chips would be fine,” he said, making his selection.  A waitress appeared out of a side door, took their orders and faded away again.  James watched her go – the short skirt she wore showed off her legs to best advantage – then turned to look at his uncle.  “What?”

“You really should think about getting married,” Winchester said.  “Those genes you have need to be passed on to the next generation.”

James flushed, helplessly.  Once, the aristocracy had tried to marry other aristocrats and ended up with countless problems caused by inbreeding.  Now, there was a definite push for aristocrats to marry commoners – successful commoners – and bring new blood into the ruling class.  It had worked, James had to admit, although it sometimes caused problems for the commoners.  Few of them were used to living within the goldfish bowl of the aristocracy.

“I have no one in mind,” he said, tightly.  “And my duties do not give me time to meet women.”

“Take a day off and go to the next Palace reception,” Winchester suggested.  “There’s always a few girls there making their entry into society.”

“I don't have time,” James said.  “There’s more work in managing a carrier than civilians seem to understand.”

Winchester snorted  “Aren’t you glad you didn't manage to take Ark Royal from Captain Smith?”

James flushed, again.  His uncle was fond of allowing him to make mistakes – and then pointing them out, afterwards.  Trying to unseat Captain Smith had been a mistake, one mitigated only by the fact he’d failed.  If he had commanded the carrier during the first battles, James suspected, the results would have been far less favourable to the human race.  They might have come alarmingly close to losing the war.

“Yes,” he said, tightly.

“Good,” Winchester said.  “You really need to learn from your mistakes, Captain.”

“Yes, sir,” James said.

The waitress returned, carrying two plates of food.  James averted his eyes as she bent over to place them on the table, then curtseyed and retreated back through the side door.  Uncle Winchester chuckled, then motioned for James to start eating.  His own dinner, a Lancashire Hot Pot, steamed as he cut his way inside and started to pull out the meat.  James smiled, remembering formal dinners at the manor house.  Uncle Winchester was rarely welcome because he was an eccentric eater, yet too aristocratic to be told off by James’s mother.

“Which leads to another point,” Uncle Winchester said, between bites.  “I want you to continue your observation of Admiral Smith.”

James felt cold ice congeal around his heart.  The Admiralty had worried about leaving Ark Royal in Captain Smith’s hands, knowing him to be a drunkard.  James had been given orders to relieve the Captain of command if he believed it to be necessary, something that could easily have killed his career as well as the career of the commanding officer he’d betrayed.  Even if his career survived – and he knew that his actions might have been judged to be mutiny by a court martial – he would never have been trusted again by his fellow officers.  And, in truth, he might have ignored his orders.

But if I’d relieved the Captain of command, he thought, we would never have escaped the trap.

James knew, without false modesty, that he'd done very well at the Academy.  And yet he would never have thought of trying to board and storm an alien starship.  Instead, he would probably have fought to the bitter end, knowing that it would be futile.  Captain Smith had thought of a way out, then implemented it and carried the plan through to the end.  He thoroughly deserved his promotion.

“No,” he said, flatly.

Winchester looked up at him, surprised.  “No?”

“No, sir,” James said.  He braced himself, then carried on.  “There is no evidence that the Captain – the Admiral – has returned to drink.  He has more than proved himself a good commanding officer, as I believe the Old Lady’s war record indicates.  I don’t think he deserves to have his Flag Captain spying on him.”

He paused, remembering Commander Williams.  Had she been sent to spy on James?  A year ago, he would have sneered at the thought.  The Royal Navy didn't betray its own.  And yet, now, he knew it was a possibility.  Commander Williams had practically been forced on him by the Admiralty.

“I do not think that you’re the one who should be making those judgements,” Uncle Winchester said.  James blinked, then remembered that his Uncle was still talking about him spying on Admiral Smith.  “The Admiralty is still very concerned.”

James glowered down at his steak, stabbing it as if the piece of meat had done him a personal injury.  “The Admiralty saw fit to give him command of a multinational task force composed of six full-sized carriers,” he snapped.  “If they had concerns, they could have promoted him up into a groundside office where he wouldn't have had to do more than make ceremonial appearances and review parades.”

“Politics,” Winchester observed, lightly.  “Admiral Smith has earned a large number of supporters who don’t, I’m afraid, seem to know anything about his drinking habits.”

James had his doubts.  The Royal Navy had worked closely with both the French and Americans in the past, sharing personnel files with both powers.  Even if they hadn't, James knew for a fact that the Royal Navy kept files on foreign officers who might be of interest and he rather assumed that the other interstellar powers did the same.  On the other hand, Admiral Smith hadn’t been remotely important until Ark Royal had suddenly become the last best hope of humanity.  It was quite possible that foreign powers knew next to nothing about him.

He shook his head.  “I’m sure the media will fill in the gaps,” he said, although he had his doubts about that too.  The media representations of the Battle of New Russia had left him wondering if he’d been there at all, even though he knew perfectly well that he'd been in the CIC during the fighting.  “Or their spy services, for that matter.”

“No doubt,” Winchester said.  “But we would really prefer it if you kept an eye on the Admiral for us.”

James met his eyes.  “No,” he said, again.  “I do not believe it is justified, sir.”

His uncle gave him the long hard look that, as a child, had been a warning that there was punishment coming if he didn't straighten up and fly right.  James swallowed, reminded himself that he was an adult, and refused to lower his eyes.  As intimidating as his uncle could be, James was hardly a child any longer and he refused to further betray a commanding officer he had come to respect.

“You could be wrong,” Winchester said.  “Can we afford to trust your judgement?”

“Yes,” James said.

“You tried to take command of a starship you were unprepared to command,” his uncle reminded him.  “Does that indicate your judgement is flawless?”

James felt his temper flare.  “I believe you were caught in the haystacks with a girl barely a third of your age,” he snapped.  It had been quite the scandal at the time, although as Uncle Winchester had shown no hint of remorse or even concern it had faded quickly.  “Does that indicate your judgement is flawless?”

His uncle smiled.  “Point taken,” he said.  “I will respect your judgement.”

He leaned forward.  “But we cannot afford to lose the alliance,” he added.  “Please, keep an eye on things.”

James met his eyes.  “Did you assign Commander Williams to keep an eye on me?”

“No,” Winchester said.  “I believe Thomas” – the First Space Lord – “wanted to make sure that there were other commanding officers for Ark Royal and her forthcoming sisters waiting in the wings.  You’ll probably have quite a few other officers passing through your hands in the coming months, James.  Try to make sure they know what they’re doing.”

He paused.  “She is pretty and smart,” he added.  “You could do worse.”

James glowered at him.  “She's not a woman, damn it,” he snapped.  “She’s my XO.”

“How true,” Winchester agreed.  “But I was serious about urging you to consider marriage.”

“Oh,” James said.

His uncle switched subjects suddenly, in the manner that had always irked James’s mother whenever he came to tea.  “I believe you have been told about your ... unexpected crewmember?”

“You mean the Prince,” James said, in no mood for games.  He took a bite of his steak, then scowled at his uncle.  “We were told today.  I would have preferred more warning.”

“So would we,” Winchester said.  “The whole affair is quite ill-timed, particularly with the legal issues over the succession.”

James sighed.  In 2013, the succession laws had been rewritten to state that the firstborn child, male or female, would inherit the throne.  But in 2030, during the troubles, the laws had been dismissed as the work of senseless liberals by the sitting Prime Minister and returned to the pre-2013 state, along with many others.  James remembered history lessons where historians debated if the Prime Minister had been right or if he’d thrown out the baby along with the bathwater.  It was hard to argue against the claim that England’s Queens, on the whole, had done better than England’s Kings.  But reaction had been the order of the day back during the troubles.  Even now, historians still had problems coming to terms with everything that had happened back then.

“Princess Elizabeth is the first girl to be born first since 2030, James,” Winchester said.  “I believe there were quiet accusations of sex-selection at the time, although I don't think that anything was proved one way or the other.  Now ... the question of succession has been reopened once again.”

He shook his head.  “In many ways, Elizabeth would make a better Queen than Henry would make a King,” he added.  “She’s more ... restrained than her younger brother.”

“And he’s signed himself up with the navy,” James muttered.  “And no one knew who he was?”

“The Academy Commandant knew,” Winchester said.  “I don’t believe anyone else knew who he was, not after his features had been altered.  But it was still a major risk.”

James felt an odd quiver of respect.  He’d never bothered to change his name; he'd entered the Academy and risen through the ranks as a known scion of the aristocracy.  In some cases, it had helped; in others, his superiors had pushed him harder just to check that he’d actually earned his position through merit, rather than being promoted by someone trying to curry favour with the aristocracy.  But the Prince had gone into the Academy as just another pilot trainee.  Whatever he’d earned, he’d earned it fairly.  

“He deserved it, I guess,” James said.  Maybe he should have gone the same route.  “But we cannot afford to keep him out of action.”

“I expect you to keep an eye on him too,” Winchester said.  “And I will be expecting regular reports.”

James sighed, but nodded.

“I have a question,” he said.  “How do you plan to keep this from the media?”

“We have issued Security Notices to the media, in the event of someone leaking the secret,” Winchester said.  “There were some plans to have the Prince move publically through the Academy, but he flatly refused to cooperate.  Now ... well, at least we will be able to tell everyone after the fact that the Prince did serve in combat.  It isn't ideal, but it’s the only way he would accept.”

James rolled his eyes.  Several decades ago, a Prince had simply walked away from his title, pointing out that the constant media scrutiny and harassment made it impossible to live a decent life.  He’d never asked to be a Prince, nor to be a role model.  Instead, he’d resigned his position and simply vanished.  As far as anyone knew, the media had never tracked him down to his new home.  The most likely speculation, he recalled, was that the Prince had gone into the military or survey service and vanished into the ranks.  But no one really knew for sure.

But the Royal Family had barely survived the scandal.  The last thing they wanted was a repeat of the same incident.  God alone knew where the pieces would fall.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” he said.  The aristocracy was full of young men of both talent and a firm belief in their own entitlement.  James had to admit he’d been one of them.  “But I’m not going to take him in hand, uncle.”

Winchester reached into his jacket and produced a creamy white envelope.  “Your orders,” he said, flipping the envelope over to show the stamp on the back.  “In the event of real trouble, you are to remove the Prince from active duty and ship him back home to Earth.”

James narrowed his eyes.  “Real trouble?”

“Anything you think justifies his separation from your ship,” Winchester said.  He passed James the envelope.  “And good luck.”

“Thank you,” James said, sourly.  “Tell me something, Uncle.  Why wasn't the Admiral kept abreast of the planning process?”

“Too much debate over how we should proceed,” Winchester admitted.  “It was decided to keep it restricted until we had a workable plan ready to go.”

***
Hyde Park was surprisingly empty for a hot summer day, Ted discovered, as he walked along the path towards Buckingham Palace.  There were only a handful of mothers escorting their children through the park and a couple of hopeful buskers, no one else.  By the time he reached the gates of the Palace, he was starting to wonder if someone had evacuated the city or extended the school year.

He paused outside the gates, looking up at the Palace, then turned his gaze to the monuments erected outside the Palace.  One of them listed every serviceman and woman killed in the war against the aliens, headed by the commanding officers of the two British carriers that had been destroyed at New Russia.  Another listed casualties from earlier wars, ranging from the First World War to the Second Falklands War and the Mars Dispute.  The latter had been surprisingly brutal, but the diplomats had managed to prevent it spilling right out of control.  Later, when Terra Nova had been discovered, another war had threatened ... and then the diplomats had agreed to share settlement rights.

His lips quirked in bitter amusement as he turned and started to walk towards the monorail, then stopped and flagged down an electric taxi.  London’s black cabs were traditional, even if they weren't powered by petrol any longer.  The cabbie stuck out a head and asked where he was going, then motioned for Ted to climb in the back.  Ted settled down into the seat as the taxi hummed into life, heading back towards Heathrow Spaceport.  His shuttle was waiting for him there.

He smiled to himself as he caught sight of a large poster, exhorting the population to KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON.  They’d been popular since the dawn of the troubles – the design dated all the way back to the Second World War – but it was rare to see them in such numbers.  Another poster reminded the population that loose lips sank ships, although Ted doubted it mattered.  As far as anyone had been able to tell, the aliens had never managed to establish a spy ring within humanity’s settled star systems.  But it was something Ted would have done, if he’d been on the other side ...

“Kids these days,” the cabbie muttered, as a line of schoolchildren ran across the road.  They were wearing blue uniforms, with trousers or skirts that reached down to their ankles.  “They all want to die, I tell you.”

Ted shrugged.  He’d made more than a few speeches at various schools, during his time on Earth, and he had to admit that plenty of kids wanted to join the navy, now there was a war on.  But it would be years before the oldest of them could join, unless conscription became a very real possibility.  Until then, they would just have to study hard and join the various campaigns to help with the war effort.  Most of the campaigns, Ted suspected, were worse than useless

He smiled.  Somehow, he doubted soldiers and spacers in training would appreciate schoolchildren coming to sing while they trained.  But knitted clothes would probably be welcome ...

“There’s a war on,” he said, instead.  The government departments responsible for monitoring public sentiment had noted that people were growing less and less inclined to prepare for the future, a future that might be suddenly terminated by the aliens.  “They’re just trying to live while they can.”

Chapter Six

Kurt scrambled off the train, paused long enough to help an elderly woman who had been chatting to him for the last hour after spying his uniform, then headed down towards the ticket barrier.  The ticket inspector took one look at his uniform and waved him through without even bothering to check his ticket, making Kurt smile inwardly.  Who would have thought he could avoid paying for a ticket just by wearing his uniform?

Outside, he looked around for the family car and saw ... nothing.  There were dozens of mums and dads and children running around – more than normal, suggesting that those who could avoid it had relocated themselves away from the city – but no sign of his wife.  Or of his children and the nanny, for that matter.  He hesitated, knowing they could be late, then reached for his terminal and switched it to the civilian network.  There was no message from any of them.

He paused, then tapped their number into the terminal.  There was a long pause, then the phone started to ring.  It was several minutes before it was picked up, giving Kurt just enough time to worry.  He loved his children and his imagination provided far too many unpleasant possibilities that could have happened to them.

It was Penny, his daughter, who answered.  “Hello?”

“Penny,” Kurt said, relaxing slightly.  “I’m at the train station.  Is your mother on the way?”

“I don’t think so,” Penny said.  She sounded surprised to hear from him.  “Dad, I didn't even know you were coming home.”

Kurt felt cold water pouring down his spine.  “Well, I am,” he said.  He’d sent Molly a message telling her he was coming home for a brief period of leave.  “I’ll try to call her, then get a taxi if she doesn't answer.”

Worried, he tapped in Molly’s number.  There was no answer.  He hesitated, cold suspicion running through his mind, then switched off the Caller ID and tried again.  This time, he received an automated message stating that Molly’s number didn't accept callers without Caller ID.  Unsurprised – Molly had been harassed as a younger girl and never quite gotten over it – but annoyed, he turned and started to walk towards the taxis.  The cabbie he found chatted aimlessly as they drove out into the suburbs, where his family lived.

He paid the cabbie and stepped out of the cab, then paused as the door burst open to reveal Penny.  She practically ran down the garden path to give him a hug, then remembered she was supposed to be a sulky teenager and let go quickly.  Kurt patted her on the back, then inspected her hair.  She'd dyed it white and black, creating a striking look that, combined with her clothes, reminded him far too much of some of the girls from Sin City.  But at least she still looked fresh-faced.

“Come on inside,” she urged, quickly.  “I put the kettle on.”

Inside, the house felt almost empty.  Kurt couldn't help feeling worried as Penny pottered about making tea, even though it was a great improvement on her behaviour before he’d gone to war.  He’d read the reports from the expensive private school – thankfully, his share of the prize money ensured he wouldn't have to take his kids out of school – and noted a very definitive improvement in both her marks and her conduct.  Clearly, the new nanny was making a great impression on his daughter.  But where was Molly?

“Percy is at the Combined Cadet Force,” Penny explained, as she put a mug of tea in front of him.  “They’re actually talking about forwarding his records to Sandhurst.”

“He’ll hate that,” Kurt predicted.  The last he’d heard, Percy had his heart set on flying starfighters, just like his dad.  But competition for slots in the Academy, even now, was still fierce.  It would be at least another year before the facilities were significantly expanded, allowing them to take in far more trainees.  “But I’m glad to hear he has other prospects.”

Penny nodded, then sat down facing him.  “I was hoping to talk about my own future,” she said.  “There’s an offer open for students to go to a French Finishing School.”

Kurt bit down on a laugh.  “I thought you hated French,” he said.  “You certainly picked quite enough fights with the teacher.”

His daughter flushed.  “It’s Gayle,” she said.  “She actually taught me how to put the words together, rather than telling everyone that ‘the pen of my aunt is in the garden.’”

“Good for her,” Kurt said.  He leaned forward.  “And do you think we can afford it?”

Penny hesitated.  “You’re rich,” she said, finally.  “And I ...”

“Money is not to be wasted,” Kurt said, firmly.  “And do you need a finishing school?”

He saw the rebellious look in her eyes and sighed, inwardly.  He’d been a moderately successful investment banker, but he’d been nowhere near as wealthy as some of the other parents who sent their kids to private school.  Percy and Penny had been confronted by children whose parents could afford to give them vast amounts of pocket money per week, enough to enjoy the latest designer clothes or electronic toys and games.  He understood just how badly they resented being poor, at times ... but he wasn't about to waste money, just so they could keep up with their classmates.  It helped that he simply didn't have the money.

“It’s a great opportunity,” Penny muttered.

“To do what?”  Kurt asked.  “What do you want to be when you ... get out of school?”

Penny hesitated.  “I keep having different ideas,” she admitted.  “I wanted to be a doctor, then a vet, then I thought about trying to study the aliens ... you could get me into a study course, couldn't you?”

Kurt rather doubted it.  “You might be better off with being a doctor,” he said.  “There’s always work for doctors.”

He leaned forward.  “I imagine your career advisers have talked to you about the requirements?”

Penny nodded, sullenly.  “They say I may have to retake some exams,” she said.  “And that I’ll have to work very hard.  But I’m not even sure it’s what I want to do.”

“That could be a problem,” Kurt agreed, dryly.  He smiled at his daughter.  “Look, it’s the start of the summer holidays.  I’ll have a word with a doctor I know and ask if she’ll let you observe her work for a few days.  Or there are emergency clinics that are always keen on volunteer manpower.  I don't know how much they’d let you do, but they might let you volunteer for a few weeks.  If you like it, I will pay for you to train as a doctor.”

He paused, significantly.  “And if you don’t like it,” he added, “at least you’ll know before you spend five years of study learning the ropes.”

Penny nodded, again.  “Yes, dad,” she said.  “But ...”

She broke off as the door opened, revealing Percy.  Kurt came to his feet as his son stepped into the kitchen, dripping mud on the floor.  Percy had always been big, but now he had more muscles than Kurt remembered and looked disgustingly healthy.  And he looked very good in uniform too.  Clearly, Kurt decided, the CCF was doing wonders for his son.  Behind Percy, Gayle stepped into the room.  The young lady looked surprised to see Kurt.  

“Dad,” Percy said.  “I thought you were still on the moon.”

“I have a couple of days leave,” Kurt said.  “And so I thought I’d come see you two.”

He chatted about nothing with his children for a while, then sent Penny upstairs as Gayle started complaining about the mess on the floor.  Percy sighed, then reached for the mop and started to clean up the mud, getting more mud on the floor as he moved.  Kurt glowered at him, then told his son to undress and take a shower before he tried to clean the floor.  Leaving him alone, he led Gayle into the next room and closed the door firmly behind them.

“I told Molly I was coming,” he said.  He hadn't wanted to talk about his wife with the kids, but he had no such qualms with Gayle.  “Where is she?”

Gayle looked embarrassed.  “She went out early this morning,” she said, “leaving me to get the kids off to school.  I haven't seen her since.”

Kurt stared at her.  “You’ve been here all day?”

“I’ve been here for the last six months,” Gayle said.  “She gave me a room, a list of chores and a few other duties, then let me get on with it.  I've been cooking, cleaning and tutoring the kids.”

Kurt sucked in his breath.  He hadn't realised just how much time Gayle had spent with the kids.  Had Molly spent any time with them at all?

“I'm sorry,” he mumbled.  Molly had always wanted to have a live-in maid, but they’d never been able to afford it.  She too resented being poorer than most of the families who sent their kids to private school.  “I didn’t mean ...”

“I get paid well,” Gayle assured him.  “And I don’t really have a family to live with ...”

Kurt nodded, told her to make sure Percy did a good job of cleaning up the mess, then walked upstairs and entered his office.  Once, he’d worked from home two days a week; now, the room had been left untouched for months.  Molly had to have told Gayle to leave it alone, he decided, as he saw the dust lying on top of his desk.  Sitting down in front of it, he opened the computer terminal and pressed his thumb against the scanner.  A moment later, he was looking at their joint account.

“Shit,” he breathed.  Molly was spending money as if it was going out of fashion.  He’d once thought the prize money would last the rest of his life.  Now, it was clear that over half of it was gone.  But what had she been buying?  A check of the spending pattern revealed that she’d spent most of the money on clothes.  “What the hell is she doing?”

He skimmed through the list of items, wondering just when and where she’d worn a bright silk dress, a set of incredibly expensive pieces of underwear or a bikini that seemed to cost enough to feed the entire family for a week.  He’d certainly never seen her in such underwear ... was she having an affair?  The thought outraged him for a long chilling moment, then he laughed at himself.  How could he possibly complain about her having an affair when he was having an affair?

But she could have been caught at any time, he thought, dully.  What if the kids found out the truth?

He stared down at the computer, miserably.  Their relationship had been falling apart for years, he saw now, long before he’d been taken away.  They hadn't had sex in months before he’d been recalled to war, then they’d had sex only once before he'd been reassigned to the Luna Academy.  But he’d had sex with Rose more times than he could count.  The spice of fucking someone he knew he shouldn't even be thinking of fucking, paired with the certainty of death, had spurred him onwards.  Every time he tried to think of Molly, naked and willing, he saw Rose instead.

Carefully, he closed the computer and headed out the door, locking the room behind him.  Outside, he could hear the sound of Penny chatting on the phone to her friends, while Gayle – downstairs – was lecturing Percy on the value of thinking before doing something as stupid as walking into a clean house with muddy clothes.  Kurt had to smile at her threat to turn the hose on him next time, washing him down thoroughly before he stepped foot into the house and scattered mud everywhere.  Kurt’s father had made the same threat, years ago.  He hadn't actually done it.

It was nearly four hours before Molly finally arrived home.  By then, Kurt had managed to have a man-to-man chat with Percy, a more peaceful discussion with Penny and speak to Gayle about how his children had been behaving.  Penny had, apparently, fought quite a bit with the nanny at first, then settled down and started to learn.  Percy had been buying books and videos on starfighter training and studying them frantically.  Kurt could only hope that he picked up enough to realise that he knew nothing when – if – he entered the Academy.

“I want you to take them both out tonight,” he’d said to Gayle, when they’d finished talking.  “Take them bowling, then go watch a movie or something that will keep them out for a long time.”

Gayle didn't argue.  In a way, that was a more worrying sign than anything else.

“Molly,” he said, when his wife closed the door behind her.  “We need to talk.”

Molly scowled at him.  She had always had a fiery temper and some of their arguments had been shockingly loud.  “Why?”

Kurt braced himself  “For a start,” he said, “why didn't you tell the kids I was coming?”

“I thought it was tomorrow,” Molly said, sullenly.

“I told you it was today,” Kurt said, feeling his temper flare.  When had he started hating his wife?  “If you couldn't come and pick me up at the station, all you had to do was tell me and I would have taken a taxi home.  But you didn't have to leave the kids unaware I was coming.”

He took a breath.  “And what about the money you’ve been spending?”

“It's my money,” Molly snapped.  “I have a right to spend it how I like!”

“Yes, we agreed we would share the joint account,” Kurt said, trying to keep an icy grip on his temper.  “But you’ve been spending money on expensive clothes, expensive handbags, expensive ... underwear!  What the fuck have you been doing?”

“I’ve been enjoying having money for the first time in years,” Molly thundered.  She drew herself up to her full height and glared at him.  “Why should I not spend it as I please?”

“Because we have to think about the future,” Kurt snapped back.  He took a long breath.  “Penny will be in schooling for at least another three years; longer, if she wants to train as a doctor.  We might have to pay for that training if she can’t win a scholarship.  Percy might change his mind about what he wants to do with his life!  And what happens if we run out of money because you’ve been spending it on overpriced clothes?”

“All of my friends buy such clothes,” Molly said, sharply.  “Why the hell shouldn't I?”

“Because your friends are married to rich aristocrats, high-priced lawyers and corporate CEOs,” Kurt said.  “The amount of money I got as my share of the prize fund is barely a month’s wages for them.  But we won’t get another windfall like that, Molly, while they earn the same amount of money each month!  We cannot afford to spend like rich men and women!”

He took a breath.  “And I don't understand some of your choices,” he added.  “Are you having an affair?”

Molly stared at him for a long moment, then exploded with rage.  “Are you daring to suggest that I would have an affair with someone?”

Kurt glared back at her. “Why the hell have you been avoiding me?  I call from the moon; you’re never there!  I send messages; you reply late, if at all.  I’ve spent more time talking to Gayle than I’ve spent talking to you in the past three months.  You knew I was coming today and yet you fucked off somewhere else while I had to take a taxi home and surprise my daughter!  Why didn't you even tell them I was coming?”

“I was busy,” Molly shouted.

“Doing what?”  Kurt shouted back.  “What the hell have you been doing that keeps you from talking to your goddamned husband?”

Molly grabbed for a vase and held it up, threateningly.  Kurt reached for a plate, then stopped himself before his fingers closed around the fine china.  They’d picked the christening plates for their children, years ago.  He wasn't going to destroy them just because he’d had a fight with his wife.  And yet ... what was she doing?  

It was worse, he realised mutely, than an affair.  If she’d been honest, he would have been honest too ... but it was clear she no longer cared about him or their future.  All she cared about was her chance to join High Society – or what passed for it in their hometown – without worrying about anything else.  But it was unsustainable.  The prize money would run out and then Molly would be dependent on the kindness of strangers.  Her job – and his - didn't pay enough to maintain her lifestyle.

“Do what you wish,” he said, suddenly feeling very tired.  “I will put half of the money into reserve accounts for the kids.  They will complete their schooling, no matter what you do with the rest of the money.  And you can stay in this house as long as you like, provided you let the kids stay here too.  I’ll even keep sending you and them money.”

He took a breath.  “It’s obvious you don’t give a shit any longer,” he added.  “You can keep the remaining money; do what you like with it.  But when you run out of cash to maintain your new lifestyle, I hope your lover will pick up the tab.  Because I damn well can't and won’t.”

“Get out,” Molly hissed.

Kurt gave her a long look.  How had their relationship failed so badly?  Was it his fault for not earning enough to satisfy her or her fault for not accepting what he was?  Or was it his fault for going to war and leaving her alone?  In the end, it didn't matter.

He picked up his coat and walked out of the door.  There were trains running back to London at all hours of the day.  He’d be able to get to the spaceport, then start his journey to his next posting.  Or maybe he should speak to the kids first, let them know what had happened and why.  But what could he tell them?

Nothing, he thought, numbly.  The anger had faded away, to be replaced by a numbness that dampened his soul.  Nothing at all.

Chapter Seven

“Impressive sight, isn't it?”

Ted nodded as Fitzwilliam stepped up behind him and stared out of the observation blister.  It was rare to see so many warships gathered in one place, close enough to allow them to be seen with the naked eye.  Even now, with running lights shining out in the inky darkness of space, the more distant ships were harder to tell apart from the glowing stars.  He resisted the urge to consult the computer, which could have identified the ships for him instantly; instead, he merely watched as shuttles appeared out of the darkness and flew towards the landing bay.

“Very impressive,” he said.  “But also very fragile.”

The three American carriers were among the largest in the known universe, he knew.  They were easily twice the size of Ark Royal, studded with launching bays, missile tubes and sensor blisters.  But, unlike the Old Lady, their armour was terrifyingly thin; they’d never been designed to serve as battleships as well as carriers.  The aliens had shown them just how dangerous the design was when they’d destroyed several American carriers at New Russia, along with two British ships.  

Behind them, the French and Japanese carriers looked more conventional.  The Japanese, in particular, had concentrated on a reliable design they could mass-produce, while the French had cooperated with the Royal Navy in designing their ships and it showed.  Indeed, apart from a non-standard weapons configuration, Napoleon could easily have passed for a British modern carrier.  But she had the same thin armour as the Japanese ship and her British counterparts.  The ablative armour that had been hastily fitted to her hull was untested outside simulations.  It was alarmingly possible, Ted knew, that a close-range engagement with the aliens would be a repeat of the Battle of New Russia, with Ark Royal the only survivor.

He closed his eyes in pain for a long moment, then looked past the carriers towards the two American Marine Expeditionary Ships.  They were larger than any transports the Royal Marines had produced, although the British Commonwealth had never seriously considered the possibility of having to invade a densely-populated planet.  Prior to Vera Cruz, Ted knew, the existence of the giant Marine Expeditionary Ships had provoked amusement and paranoia among the other powers.  Were the Americans planning an imperialistic war?  But now, Ted knew, they had good reason to be grateful for American paranoia.

Or, he asked himself, did they know the aliens were out there?

It was the old mystery, one that had occupied the minds of both conspiracy theorists and serious thinkers.  Over the past thirty years, the major interstellar powers had built up their forces, despite no real threat of a war.  Admittedly, there had been a brief dispute between America and China that could have turned into a major shooting war, but it had blown up out of nowhere.  Maybe they’d all been a little paranoid after that confrontation ... or maybe the governments had known there was an unknown alien race out there, watching humanity.  But humanity’s most advanced ships had proven no match for the aliens ...

He pushed the thought aside, irritated.  There was no point in wasting his time on conspiracy theories.  The truth would come out in the end, he was sure, perhaps after everyone involved was safely dead.  Besides, it was much more likely that the human race had been preparing for war with other humans.  If they’d known about aliens, he suspected, the gentleman’s agreement banning mass drivers would have been quietly ignored.

His communicator buzzed.  “Admiral,” Lopez said, “they’re ready for you.”

Ted nodded, then looked over at Fitzwilliam.  “Here we go,” he said.  “Let’s see if we can get off on a good foot.”

There were no politicians or reporters in the group he’d invited to Ark Royal, so formal greeting ceremonies had been kept to a minimum.  No one seemed to have complained as they were escorted through the ship to the main briefing room, even though not everyone had been invited.  The only frigate commander to be welcomed onboard was the Chinese officer, who commanded the entire Chinese squadron.  There just wasn't room for the remaining frigate commanders to attend in person.

He ran into Lieutenant Lopez outside the room, who gave his dress uniform a brief once-over, brushed a speck of lint off his jacket and then pronounced it satisfactory.  Ted sighed, remembering the days when he’d stood watch on the bridge wearing only uniform trousers and a shirt, then stepped through the hatch.  The officers sitting at the table rose to their feet as he entered.

“Please, be seated,” Ted said.  He couldn’t help noticing that the officers had sorted themselves out by country, without exchanging more than a few words.  That would have to change.  “Thank you all for coming.”

He took his seat at the head of the table, then allowed his gaze to move from face to face, matching them to the names in the files.  Admiral Stanley Shallcross, Deputy Commander, looked brisk and efficient, his teeth pearly white against his dark skin.  Beside him, wearing combat battledress, was Major General Roger Ross, a heavyset man with a reputation for winning against impossible odds.  The United States Marine Corps had sent their best and brightest to the fight, Ted knew.  They’d practiced forced landings on a planetary surface more than anyone else.  And they called Ross the Rhino.

Further down the table, Capitaine de vaisseau Paul-Henri Bellerose and Captain Atsuko looked ill-at-ease to be sitting together, while Captain Wang Lei looked fairly isolated, even though he was their equal in rank.  Ted wasn't too surprised.  The Chinese officer was not only an unknown, he commanded a frigate rather than a carrier.  But the Chinese reluctance to commit a carrier to the multinational force had been impossible to overcome, no matter what the diplomats said.  They didn't trust the Americans enough to place a carrier anywhere near a fleet the Americans might command.

Ted sighed, inwardly.  It would be hard enough fighting the aliens.  He didn't need political warfare as well.

Beside their respective commanders, there were a handful of officers; carrier commanders, flag lieutenants and one Chinese woman wearing an unmarked uniform.  Ted guessed she was the political commissioner, although it was equally possible she was the Captain’s assistant or woman.  There were plenty of rumours about the freedom granted to Chinese officers by their government, although those freedoms were offered as bribes to keep them loyal, or so Ted had heard.  Or maybe they were just exaggerations.  The only place he’d visited where the exaggerations hadn't been anything of the sort was Sin City.

“Gentlemen,” he said, silently relieved that English was still the official tongue for spacefaring operations.  Both Americans and British Commonwealth citizens spoke it and, between them, they made almost a third of the population off-world.  The children born on interplanetary and interstellar settlements were taught English along with their mother tongue.  “Welcome to Task Force Nelson.”

He paused, trying to gauge their reaction, then continued.  “Our mission is both simple and very complex.  Simple, because the objective is clear enough; complex, because we are going to be diving into unknown space and attempting to occupy or destroy an alien-held star system behind the front lines.  If we succeed, we should knock them back on their heels and buy time for humanity to produce more starships and weapons of war.

“If we lose, it could shorten the war.

“You have all read your briefing packets, I assume,” he said.  “Do you have any questions before we proceed?”

“Just one,” the French Captain said.  “How sure are we of the data pulled from the alien systems?”

Ted looked over at Lieutenant Phipps, who had been assigned to Ark Royal until the task force actually departed.  “We are as sure of it as we can be,” Phipps said.  “We considered the possibility of misinformation or misinterpretation, but we believe the probability to be very low.  What we have managed to check, through gravimetric surveys, has held water.”

“Right,” Ross said.  “Do we know anything about the defences on the far end?”

“Nothing,” Ted said.  “We may break through their defence walls and emerge in an undefended region of space or we may discover the star system is heavily defended.  There is literally no way to check until we actually reach the system.”

He sighed.  Basic theory suggested that the aliens wouldn't have bothered to fortify their inner systems, but one look at the human sphere disproved that theory.  The major settled worlds all had their own defences, while a quite staggering amount of firepower had been gathered around Earth.  Even if the aliens didn't have their own national subgroups, it was unlikely that they’d completely ruled out the prospect of an attack on their homeworld, wherever it was.  It was presumably shown on the charts they’d pulled from the alien battlecruiser, but there had been nothing to identify it.

“There is a considerable amount of risk associated with this operation,” he admitted.  “But all war is risk.”

There was a long pause.  “We will not survive this operation,” he added, “unless we work together.  From now until the day we leave, we will run simulations and even live fire exercises, testing ourselves against the best we know the aliens can provide – and worse.  We will streamline our procedures for issuing orders, carrying out combat manoeuvres and everything else we need to do to act as a single entity.  I expect each and every one of you to work together to ensure we survive this operation.

“I have the authority, granted by your countries, to relieve any of you who proves a barrier to working together,” he warned.  “And I will not hesitate to use it, because more is riding on this operation than human pride.  If we lose this operation, the human race could very easily lose the war and the fate of New Russia will fall on Earth and all of our settled worlds.”

He took a long breath.  He did have such authority, but he knew that using it would kick off a political shitstorm.  No matter the justice of his actions, someone would complain and the alliance would stagger.  As irritating as the thought was, he might have to help cover it up afterwards rather than let it fester and poison the diplomatic agreements reached by the various governments.

“If any of you have a problem with this,” he concluded, “I’m sorry.  But there’s no alternative.”

He waited to see if anyone would speak, but heard nothing.  “Good,” he said.  he keyed a switch, activating the holographic display.  A star chart appeared in front of them, human tramlines in green, alien tramlines in red.  He couldn't help noticing that the aliens had several routes they could take into human space that would allow them to outflank most of the defenders, if they chose to take them.  “Our ships have been modified to allow us to use the alien tramlines, which will give us a considerable advantage over the old drives.”

It also ensured that there was no hope of rescue, at least until the rest of humanity’s various fleets were outfitted with the new drive, but he kept that thought to himself.  They’d probably have thought of it for themselves in any case.  None of them were political appointees, if their files were to be believed.  They were all experienced officers.  It was impossible to imagine they didn't know the odds stacked against them.

“We will proceed through the seven star systems marked on the chart,” he continued.  “Five of them are largely worthless, we believe, but two of them may well be settled by the aliens and thus they will probably have sensor networks watching over them.  Ideally, we will avoid all contact with the aliens as we progress through those systems, but it may be impossible to avoid detection.  If we are detected, we will have to fight our way through and hope we successfully prevent the aliens from sending a warning.  That will not be easy.”

There were nods.  Post-battle analysis of Ark Royal’s escape from New Russia had proved that the aliens stationed courier boats, smaller than anything humanity had been able to produce, near the tramlines.  It wasn't quite a method of sending signals faster than light, Ted knew, but it was alarmingly close to one.  Given enough time to prepare, the aliens could intercept the human ships as they came through the tramline, launching missiles and starfighters before the humans even realised they were there.

“I would prefer not to make a fighting entry into our target system,” Ted admitted.  “If it is unavoidable, we will – of course – launch the operation if we believe it has a valid chance of success.  If not ... we will try to survey several other alien systems before we retreat back to human space.  However, that runs the risk of being trapped again – and I doubt the aliens will allow us to capture a second starship.”

He smiled at the thought.  No one in their right mind would have expected a boarding operation in the middle of interstellar war, but he’d been desperate and it had worked.  But the aliens wouldn't make the same mistake twice.  In their place, he'd stand-off and batter the human fleet to pieces with long-range fighter strikes.  It would make it harder for the mass drivers to score a hit on the alien ships.

“Once we secure the orbitals, we will land troops,” he concluded, looking over at Ross.  “Ideally, we should be able to sweep the surface for anything useful as well as set up defences to make it harder for the aliens to push us back out.  However, again, if the situation on the ground is too complex, we will retreat rather than push too far into the system.”

“My men know the score,” Ross informed him, gravely.  “We can hold the planet’s surface indefinitely.”

Ted had his doubts about it.  Everything they knew about the aliens suggested that water was their normal environment, which raised the question of just why they’d started the war in the first place.  If they’d lived in the seas and humanity had claimed the land, there was no reason why the two races couldn't have shared countless uninhabited worlds.  But maybe there was some other reason behind the war.

“We anticipate that most of the alien settlements will be below the water,” Ted said.  “Do you have a plan to deal with them?”

“I have combat suits designed for underwater operations,” Ross confirmed.  “However, I would prefer to avoid underwater engagements if possible.  It will depend on the situation we find when we arrive.”

Ted nodded.  Ross had a reputation for winning, but he was clearly not as bull-headed as his nickname suggested.

“Good,” he said.  He looked around at his subordinates.  “Should we be attacked by overwhelming force, we will withdraw.  There’s no point in trying to hold the system indefinitely if the aliens have the power to throw us out.  And we have no way of knowing how long it will take them to assemble the forces to do it.”

He paused, then tapped the console again.  “We start training tomorrow,” he said.  “Right now, I want to distribute war stocks so starfighters from one country can land and deploy from carriers belonging to another country.  I know this will be a pain for the supply officers” – there were some muted chuckles – “but it will help us ensure that the maximum number of starfighters are kept operational.  Once we have all our pilots onboard, we will start exercising in earnest; I don’t want to see any problems when we finally start the operation.

“Frigates will be assigned to both protect our flanks and scout out enemy territory,” he continued.  “Drills for frigate commanders will be focused around stealth and combined point defence operations.  The boffins believe we can get our datanets to work together; we’d better make damn sure of that before we depart.  You’ve all seen how the aliens prefer to launch their attacks, how they like to swarm their targets, and I don’t feel like testing the new armour too closely.  I want to make sure that we take down as many alien starfighters as possible before they get into firing range.  The modified sensors should help with tracking the stealthy bastards.”

There was a long pause.  “I’ll be speaking with each of you individually over the next few days,” Ted concluded.  “Until then, I expect you to raise any problems either through the datanet or by calling me directly.  I imagine there will be quite a few bumps along the road as we get used to working together.  But we must hang together or hang separately.”

He smiled, suddenly.  “My cooks have prepared a meal for us,” he added.  “I would be honoured if you would join me in the Officer’s Mess.”

The dinner went better than he'd expected, even though there was no alcohol.  Most of the officers seemed competent, although there was some friction between the Chinese Captain and his American counterpart.  Ted managed to defuse it with some pointed reminders of the shared danger, then found himself chatting to Ross.

“Call me Rhino,” Ross said.  “Everyone does.”

Ted had to smile.  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.  “And how are your men coping with the situation?”

“They’re very excited,” Ross said.  He was practically rubbing his hands together with glee.  “Do you realise that this is the first opposed landing the Corps has planned for centuries?  We can't wait to see how well our doctrine holds against a real enemy.”

“The naval doctrine didn't stand up at all,” Ted reminded him.  “We lost twelve carriers finding that out the hard way.”

“Only way to learn, sometimes,” Ross said.  He looked down at the deck for a long moment, then back up at Ted.  “Sometimes, you just have to learn the hard way.”

Chapter Eight

“So,” Rose said.  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

Kurt looked up at her, naked and lovely under the compartment’s lighting.  He’d called her into his office as soon as he arrived on Ark Royal, intending to talk to her, but the sight had spurred him to make love to her instead.  She’d been willing ... and, afterwards, he felt better than he’d been since leaving Molly and the kids behind. But it still hurt, deep inside.

“I don't know what’s got into her,” Kurt admitted, finally.  “She ... just stopped caring about me.  Is she having an affair?”

Rose lifted an eyebrow.  “Remind me,” she said.  “Which of you started fucking someone else first?”

Kurt flushed.  “That’s not the same,” he protested.  “I ...”

“I’d say it was precisely the same,” Rose countered.  She leaned down and poked him just above his groin.  “You and she, assuming she is having an affair, are both fucking people outside your marriage.  Or is strenuous horizontal exercise now an approved form of pilot bonding in the Royal Navy?”

“You know what I mean,” Kurt said.  “She could at least have told me!”

Rose met his eyes.  “Have you told her about me?”

She saw the answer in his face and pressed onwards.  “You are in no position to bitch and moan about your wife opening her legs for someone else,” she said.  “I don’t think the law recognises any difference between male infidelity and female infidelity.  You could separate, now, and neither of you would be penalised.  But you have to think of the kids.”

Kurt stared at her.  “When did you become  the mature one?”

“When it became clear that you were too obsessed with your own pain to think rationally,” Rose snapped.  “But tell me.  Do you actually know she’s having an affair?”

“She bought a ton of expensive underwear,” Kurt said.  He couldn't think of any other explanation for her purchases.  “Why would she buy that unless she wanted to show off for someone?”

“When I was fifteen, I saved my pocket money for several weeks to buy some lingerie from Edinburgh Stars,” Rose said.  “They were intensely fashionable at the time, even if they weren't very practical.  I wore them under my trousers or skirts for months until they fell to pieces and no one, not even my sisters, knew I had them.  There was no boyfriend, no one I wanted to impress; I just wanted the feeling of having them.”

Kurt felt his eyes narrow.  “Are you saying that Molly wants to just ... possess them?”

Rose sighed.  “From what you’ve told me,” she said, as she rolled off him and sat upright, “you and Molly didn't have very much money to spare while you were trapped in civilian life.”

Kurt nodded, impatiently.

“So I imagine Molly got used to spending within strict limits,” Rose continued.  “I imagine she knew, too, just how important staying within those limits actually was, as your family could not afford to get into debt.  But I would bet good money that she saw the adverts, or spent time browsing the stores, and wanted.  And then you suddenly came into a shitload of money from the alien ship.”

She shrugged.  “So Molly can suddenly buy all the pretty things she wants,” she added.  “I guess she went a little crazy and bought far too much.”

“She did,” Kurt said.  “But ...”

Rose reached over and poked him again, then stood up.  “You need to have a proper conversation with her,” she said.  “If she really is having an affair, you can get a legal separation and share custody of the kids, seeing you’re both equally guilty.  If not ... well, you’d better work out what the hell you actually want from her.”

She strode off into the shower compartment, her naked ass gleaming under the light.  Kurt hesitated, wishing he understood his own feelings.  Rose was right; whatever Molly was doing, he was having an affair.  And yet ... he found himself torn between two conflicting feelings.  He no longer liked Molly, he thought, but he still cared about her – and he certainly cared about the children.  It was all a terrible ghastly mess.

But she started being standoffish long before we came into money, he thought, as he pulled himself to his feet.  Maybe she was having an affair even then.

He sighed, remembering what Father O’Brian had told him the night before his wedding day.  Marriage was a lifetime commitment, yet with extended lifespans it was harder and harder to hold a marriage together forever.  Couples tended to become partners rather than lovers, raising the children while seeking affairs and excitement outside the homes.  The Church disapproved, of course, as did many other major religions, but they could do nothing to stop it.  For better or worse, society had changed beyond measure since the days the Church commanded and men obeyed.

Bracing himself, he followed Rose into the shower.  Hot water ran down her body, washing away all traces of their lovemaking, but he couldn't help being tantalised by her breasts.  Two children and a life working at a desk had allowed Molly to put on weight; Rose was trim, muscular and far more adventurous.  He almost reached for her before she caught his eye and shook her head, firmly.  Kurt opened his mouth to object, then remembered that they were meant to be greeting the new pilots as they arrived on Ark Royal.  They couldn't afford to waste any more time.

He showered quickly, then dried himself and pulled on his working uniform.  He'd given some thought to meeting the newcomers in his dress blues, but decided that would be just showing off – and besides, the dress uniform was hideously uncomfortable.  Stepping out of the shower, he discovered that Rose had already left, probably heading down to the pilot barracks.  Fortunately, with so few pilots on the carrier, it was unlikely that anyone would notice where she’d been.

We’ll have to be more careful in future, he thought, as he checked his appearance in the mirror.  There will be a full complement of pilots once again – and a new XO looking to make her mark on the ship.

He picked up his terminal, slotted it to his belt, then sighed as he saw the pistol lying beside it.  Captain Fitzwilliam had ordered his crewmembers to carry loaded weapons at all times – and to recertify themselves on the firing range if they hadn't fired a weapon since the Academy.  Kurt was torn between considering it paranoia or a wise precaution; the humans had boarded an alien craft, logically the aliens might try to do the same to them.  Sighing again, he buckled the weapon to his belt and silently resolved to spend more time in the shooting ranges himself.  It would be embarrassing if he was outshot by the new pilots.

Shaking his head, he walked through the hatch and down towards the starboard landing bay.  He was just in time to see the first shuttle make its way into the bay and settle down on the deck, followed rapidly by two more.  Tradition dictated that all pilots had to arrive on their carriers via shuttle, rather than flying their own Spitfires or Hurricanes to their new assignments.  Kurt suspected there was some reason for the tradition, but several hours of searching through the archives had revealed no reason that made sense.  The cynical part of his mind wondered if the original reason was still valid.

Rose entered the compartment, followed by the five other Wing Commanders.  Kurt turned to them and nodded, fighting down a sudden surge of envy.  They would be commanding their squadrons in combat, while he would be trapped in the CIC, watching helplessly as the young men and women under his command risked their lives.  It was the best job in the Royal Navy.  He silently promised himself that he would take a starfighter out more than once, perhaps allowing each of the Wing Commanders a chance to serve as CAG.  It would be good for their careers, if not their desire to stay in a cockpit.

“I’ve shared out the experienced pilots among you,” Kurt informed them, as the final shuttle landed neatly on the deck.  “I expect you to train hard until the rooks are up to scratch – and don’t make stupid mistakes.”

“Yes, sir,” Wing Commander Paton said.  The others, including Rose, nodded in droll agreement.  Rooks – the Royal Navy’s slang for new pilots – made stupid mistakes all the time, even after six months at the Academy.  These newcomers had only had three months of intensive training before being deemed qualified pilots.  “We’ll ride them hard.”

The airlock dinged, announcing that it was now safe to enter the landing bay.  Kurt led the way into the vast compartment, then keyed his terminal.  The shuttle hatches opened, revealing a mob of young men and women spilling out onto the deck.  Some of them he recognised, others had been in other training courses and he’d never seen them before.  Up close, they all looked disturbingly fresh-faced and young.  Behind them, there were a handful of older pilots moving at a more sedate pace.  They’d seen carriers before and saw no need to stare.

Kurt put his fingers in his mouth and whistled.  “Line up in squadrons,” he snapped.  He’d done better than that on his first assignment.  “Rooks to the front; older pilots to the rear.”

He concealed his amusement at their expressions.  Every single starfighter pilot believed himself – or herself – to be the best starfighter pilot in the galaxy.  They didn't like having their status as newcomers rubbed in their face, any more than Kurt himself had enjoyed it when he was a rook himself.  But there was no choice.  They had to learn just how little they knew before they actually went into combat.  

It should have taken less than a minute for the lines to form.  Instead, it took almost five minutes ... and it would have been longer if the older pilots hadn't taken charge and started pushing or pulling the rooks into line.  Kurt sighed inwardly, remembering some of the exercises he’d done when he’d been a trainee himself.  This bunch wouldn't have a hope of sorting themselves out by alphabetical order, if the order was given.  And they were likely to wind up on charges for failing to salute a superior officer.

“That was disgraceful,” Kurt said, when they were finally assembled in ragged lines.  It was a damn good thing, he told himself, that the Royal Marines weren't around to watch.  “Parts of your training might have been cut, but there's no excuse for not sorting yourselves out.”

He paused.  “For those of you who don’t know me,” he continued, “my name is Kurt Schneider, Commander Air Group.  My job is to command the starfighters and bombers assigned to the carrier, which includes getting you rooks into shape before we encounter the aliens.  Believe me, I don’t care about what sort of hot shit you consider yourself to be – and you can be damn sure that the aliens don’t care either.  Pilots far more experienced than you have been blown out of space by the aliens, sometimes before they even knew they were under attack.

“These” – he paused to indicate Rose and the others – “are the Wing Commanders, the officers in command of the squadrons you’ll serve in.  Like me, they have all faced the aliens in combat and know their tricks, so I suggest you learn from their experience.  They will hammer you into shape, if necessary, to make sure you fit in.  And if you have real problems fitting in, you will be relieved and sent back to Earth.  We have no time to coddle people here.  Do you understand me?”

There was a ragged chorus of assent.  Kurt gazed over the pilots, noting how some of them seemed to have quailed under his speech and others looked resentful.  The only one who looked almost happy was Charles Augustus.  Indeed, the young man looked pleased.  Kurt eyed him suspiciously – pilots were known for being great jokers and playing pranks on their superiors was a common trait during peacetime – then put the matter out of his mind.  There was much else that needed to be said.

“The older pilots amongst you also have experience, so they will be serving as subordinate commanders,” Kurt continued.  “I suggest you learn from their experience too, because it is far easier to learn from someone else’s experience than learning it the hard way.  I do not want to hear any quibbles about pilot equality, not now.  Experience will serve as the basis of seniority.”

He paused, significantly.  In theory, Flight Lieutenants were equals, regardless of experience; in practice, he’d just thrown that convention out of the airlock.  But there was no way he was going to abandon the chance to have more experienced pilots assist with the training, no matter their ranks.  They needed all the help they could get.

“You may have heard rumours about operational deployments,” Kurt concluded.  He’d heard the rumours himself, although nothing had been officially confirmed.  But it was pretty obvious that a task force consisting of six full-sized carriers wasn't going to be patrolling the rear of human space.  “This is not a pleasure cruise.  Any of you who act like you’re on a luxury liner to Jupiter will regret it.”

He paused, again.  “Which leads to one final point,” he added.  “I assume you all brought your duffels?”

The rooks raised their bags.  Kurt smiled; Royal Navy regulations only allowed pilots one medium-sized bag, which had to carry their clothing as well as anything else they wished to bring with them.  His training had included a session on how best to pack their bags, but the rooks had largely missed out on that piece of vital information.  He'd bet good money that half of the rooks hadn't packed their spare uniforms, or stuffed the bags full of chocolate or pornographic materials.  Or, rather more worryingly, drugs or electronic simulators.  The latter two could get a pilot dishonourably discharged from the service, if he didn't manage to get himself killed first.

“You should have been provided with a list of what you were expected to bring,” Kurt said, dryly.  “If you haven’t brought any of it, you can obtain the missing items from the supply officer – but I’m afraid the costs will be coming out of your salary, as the items in question were supplied by the Royal Navy.  I suggest you do that today, as we will be inspecting your possessions tomorrow.  Which” – he paused, drawing the moment out as long as possible – “leads to the next point.

“There are items that are firmly on the banned list,” he warned.  “You have until the end of today to get rid of them, no questions asked.  The list itself is on the datanet.  If you are caught with any of them afterwards, you will be fined, docked in rank – which is a little pointless at the moment – assigned to punishment duties or the brig ... or dishonourably discharged from the navy.  You’ve all done very well to reach so far so quickly.  It would be a crying shame if you lost it right now.”

He smiled at their expressions.  Whatever happened in Sin City stayed in Sin City – that much was well-known – but it was quite possible to buy items that were legally banned just about everywhere else in the lunar settlement.  Pornography wasn't technically banned, but drugs, simulators and other devices were forbidden.  But pilots, always seeking thrills, had probably decided to risk their careers to buy something they shouldn’t.  He just hoped they had the sense to get rid of anything incriminating before the inspections began.  Someone stupid enough not to do so was probably addicted already.

“That’s the end of my speech,” he said.  “Wing Commander Labara?”

Rose stepped forward.  “When I call your name,” she said, “assemble behind me.”

She ran through eleven names, three of them belonging to experienced pilots.  The rooks, some of them looking noticeably paler than they’d looked when they’d boarded the ship, followed orders, then followed her out of the compartment.  Charles Augustus still showed no sign of anything, but pleasure.  Kurt narrowed his eyes, watched them go – they hadn't learned to march in step, clearly – and then turned back as the other Wing Commanders went through the lists.  Finally, all of the pilots were assigned to a specific squadron and on their way to the barracks.  After the Academy, they’d probably find the barracks something of an improvement.

He made his way back to his office and started to work his way through the reports, waiting to see who would call him first.  Brief updates started to blink up on his terminal within moments, informing him that several rooks had forgotten various important items and would have to order them from the supply officer.  Kurt rolled his eyes when he saw that, as always, they’d forgotten pieces of their uniforms or even their underwear.  How the hell did someone manage to forget navy-issue underpants or bras?  

You were that young too, once, he reminded himself.  He’d forgotten his uniform jacket, which had cost him a large chunk of his salary.  And you had the full six months of intensive training.

Putting the thought aside, he pulled up the planned training schedules and cast his eye down them.  There would be a couple of days for his squadrons to get used to their new starfighters, then they would start training with American, Japanese and French pilots.  It would be interesting, to say the least.  No matter what the Admiral might have said about working together, national rivalry would play a major role in the coming mock battles.

But they won’t be mock when we meet the aliens, he told himself, sharply.  By then, we have to learn to work together or die together.

Chapter Nine

Major Charles Parnell couldn't help but be impressed by USS Chesty Puller.  Like most military warships she was as ugly as hell, yet that hardly mattered.  She was designed to take thousands of American Marines into the teeth of enemy fire, land them on hostile ground and provide fire support to them until the enemy were firmly suppressed.  Indeed, she made the transport ships used by the Royal Marines look tiny, although Charles wasn't entirely sure she was a great idea.  Her armour might be heavier than the armour protecting modern carriers, but it was nowhere near as heavy as Ark Royal’s.

“Welcome to my ship,” Major General Ross called.  “It's been a long time.”

Charles smiled and shook hands firmly with the Rhino.  They’d met years ago, back during a joint operation in the Horn of Africa, yet another butcher and bolt.  The Rhino had impressed him, once he’d overcome the bombast and realised there was a fine mind hidden under the heavyset expression.  And he’d been quite happy to forget nationalism and work with others to hunt down terrorists, kidnappers and wreckers.

“It has indeed,” he said.  “And now they’re sending you to war against aliens.”

“Hell of a thing,” the Rhino agreed.  “None of us ever really planned for it.”

He waved a hand, indicating the colossal landing bay.  Countless Marines and support staff moved from shuttle to shuttle, inspecting their loads or checking their drives.  Others ran in circles around the bay, getting what exercise they could.  Charles couldn’t help the flicker of envy – a ship dedicated to the Royal Marines would have been very helpful – but he still had his doubts about the concept.

“But you can see we’ve been adapting,” the Rhino boomed.  “You see Mons Meg over there?”

Charles followed his gaze.  A large weapon – it looked big enough to be a self-propelled gun – was mounted on tracks.  As he watched, a handful of Marines carefully manoeuvred it into a shuttle, taking extreme care.  

“It looks as though they expect the weapon to blow up at any moment,” he said.

“They do,” the Rhino said.  “That’s one of the first strategic plasma cannons designed and produced for the Corps.  It's actually capable of engaging targets in low orbit from the ground, which should make life interesting for anyone trying to land on the planet.  But the plasma containment field is very far from perfect.”

Charles snorted.  “I bet the health and safety lot loved it!”

“Oh, they did,” the Rhino sneered.  “They actually wanted to forbid its deployment to the Corps until we actually managed to improve the containment system.  But they were overruled, because there’s a war underway and we need every advantage we can get.  We’ve also got plasma cannons for deployment to replace antitank missiles and HVMs, but nothing man-portable just yet.  We don't know how the aliens do it.”

Charles nodded, remembering the alien weapons they’d captured from Alien-1 and the battlecruiser.  They’d shot bursts of superheated plasma, enough to ensure a kill even if they only brushed their human targets.  But humanity couldn't duplicate the handheld weapons, not yet.  It made him wonder just what else the aliens might have up their sleeves, if their technology was so much more advanced.  Humanity was catching up, but would it catch up in time?

The Rhino snorted, again.  “In any case, I will be leading the assault down to the ground, assuming there actually is an assault,” he said.  “Once we take the ground, we will set up defences and wait for the aliens to come to us.  We’ll give them quite a few nasty surprises when they do.  If the fleet has to leave, we can still hold the planet.”

“They’ll just fry you from orbit,” Charles protested.  Standard doctrine insisted that whoever ruled the high orbitals ruled the planet.  It was certainly true that wrecker bases in the failed states in Africa and the Middle East were obliterated without warning, either by American or European military forces.  “You’ll lose everyone.”

“Hardly,” the Rhino said.  He nodded towards a handful of other plasma cannons.  “We should be able to hold out for a time.”

He shrugged, mightily.  “It all depends on the exact situation, of course,” he added.  “At worst, we’ll merely loot their settlements and then fall back.”

Charles nodded.  They’d been briefed extensively on the importance of recovering alien books as well as computers, something that might help the scientists unlock the secrets behind how the aliens communicated.  The alien computers might have yielded some data, but nothing that would allow humans to actually talk to them.  He’d been told that if they recovered something that served as a key to unlock the alien language there would be promotions all around.  The scientists had to be getting desperate.

Maybe they think the aliens are just misunderstood, he thought.  And they want to prove it before it’s too late.

“Their settlements may well be underwater,” Charles said.  The aliens on Alien-1 had certainly been based underwater – and it was clear the aliens didn't need to surface to breathe.  “Can you handle that?”

“We have over two thousand armoured Marines,” the Rhino assured him.  “We can certainly probe into their underwater domains, even if we can’t hold them permanently.  But I’m rather hoping there will be a large underwater population.”

Charles blinked.  “You are?”

“There might well be civilians there too,” the Rhino said.  “Perhaps they can actually talk to us.”

“Maybe,” Charles said.  The aliens they’d captured might have been military personnel – or they might have been civilian scientists.  Without any way to actually talk to them it was impossible to tell.  “But we should be very careful.  So far, the aliens have largely refrained from atrocities.”

“True,” the Rhino said.  He looked pensive for a long moment.  “What does it say about us, Charles, when a bunch of aliens are more honourable foes than half of humanity?”

“They’re pragmatic,” Charles said.  “They go after our worlds, we go after their worlds and both races lose billions of people.  But if they win the war, they can commit genocide afterwards at leisure – or simply keep us trapped on the ground.  Maybe they just don’t want us expanding any further, so they started the war.”

The Rhino shrugged and slapped him on the back.  “It doesn’t matter why they started the war,” he said.  “All that matters is winning it.”

He paused, then produced a sheet of paper from his belt.  “Now, training schedules,” he said, briskly.  “The Russians and Chinese have sent ground forces, as have the French.  You’ll be taking part in the briefings, I assume?”

Charles nodded.  As one of the few officers to actually set foot on an alien world, his insights would be invaluable.  But they’d never seen a major alien world.  The intelligence officers had warred over the question of just how many defences the aliens would construct around a world they had to defend.  Would they have major ground-based plasma cannons, capable of engaging ships in orbit, or would they prefer to station weapons in orbit?  There were strong cases for both arguments and everywhere in between.

“It will be my pleasure,” Charles said.  He was looking forward to working with the Rhino again, even though he’d never met the other commanding officers.  “Shall we go?”

***
“So you forgot your uniform trousers and one of your bras,” Kurt said.  The rook – a pilot who reminded him uncomfortably of Penny – flushed bright red.  “You’ll be pleased to know that the supply officer can and will provide, but your salary is deducted one hundred pounds to pay for it.”

The pilot winced as the other rooks sniggered.  Kurt felt a flicker of sympathy which he ruthlessly suppressed.  Attention to detail was important in flying – a pilot who forgot her uniform one day might forget to check her weapons and flying systems before launch the next.  One hundred pounds was steep – the Royal Navy had a very good deal with its suppliers – but it would teach her a lesson.  Besides, the remainder would be poured into the squadron R&R fund.

He turned his attention to the next pilot, who’d been snickering uncontrollably.  “Perhaps you would like to explain, rook, precisely why you failed to pack both of your shirts?”

The rook stopped laughing.  “I ...”

“Let me guess,” Kurt said, cutting him off.  “You thought you could avoid wearing a shirt and pack something else instead?”

He sighed.  The excuse had been popular during his training and probably dated far further back than the human race had been flying in space.  But it was still stupid.

“You’ll be charged seventy-five pounds,” Kurt informed him, sternly.  “And what did you pack in their place?”

“Nothing,” the rook said.  “I ...”

Kurt glowered at him, then allowed his voice to become mocking.  “You didn't even manage to smuggle a naughty outfit onboard?”

He moved onto Charles Augustus, who was standing beside his bunk, and checked the terminal.  Augustus didn't seem to have reported anything to the supply officer, which suggested he’d actually managed to pack his bag properly or he’d tried to avoid reporting anything missing in the hopes it would be missed in the inspection.  Kurt motioned for the young man to open his bag, then checked everything against the master list.  Nothing seemed to be missing, nor was there anything illicit.  It was suspiciously perfect.

“You seem to have managed to pack,” Kurt growled.  “And how did you do it without being taught?”

“I asked one of the older pilots,” Augustus said.  He held Kurt’s eyes without flinching, which was interesting.  No matter how confident pilots were, rooks rarely stood up to their superiors.  “He taught me how to do it, then warned me to be careful I didn't miss anything.”

“Good for him,” Kurt said.  

He moved on to the next pilot, then the next.  Three more were missing essential items, two of them had brought other items of clothing with them, despite being told it was against regulations.  He could see the impulse to bring sexy underwear, even though relations between pilots in the same squadrons were strictly forbidden, but what sort of idiot would feel that a complete set of civilian clothes were suitable?  They were hardly going to attend a coming-out ball in the heart of London.

“Well,” he said, when the inspection was finally finished.  “This doesn't bode well for the future, does it?”

He allowed himself to glare at the pilots who’d had to request items from the supply officer, then sighed out loud.  “You need to learn to pay close attention to detail,” he said.  “I suggest, very strongly, that you learn.”

Turning, he marched out of the compartment, leaving Wing Commander Paton to lecture the pilots who'd slipped up, badly.  Outside, he met Rose and Commander Amelia Williams, who nodded shortly to him.  He wasn't quite sure what to make of the XO, but she seemed competent and didn't seem inclined to mess around with his responsibilities.  That alone was enough to endear her to him.

“We found only a small amount of illicit goods,” Amelia said.  “Either they didn't have the opportunity to find much at Sin City or they had more sense than we expected.”

“That’s a relief,” Kurt said, as he followed them into a small room.  It was also odd.  The last time he’d been to Sin City, he’d had to avoid the attentions of hundreds of sellers, all of whom seemed to think he had money to burn.  “Anything particularly dangerous?”

“Just this,” Rose said, picking up a headband from the table.  “We don’t know who it belonged to.”

Kurt sighed as he took it.  The headband directly simulated the pleasure centres in a person’s brain, allowing them to forget their troubles in a wash of orgasmic pleasure.  It was definitely safer than drugs, legal or illegal, and it had few physical effects, but the mental addiction could be impossible to break.  Once, he’d tried it as a teenager, then thrown it away in horror at just what it had done.  A few more doses, he knew, and he would have done anything for another one.  The last he’d heard, the girlfriend who had introduced him to the experience had been sent to a mental hospital.  She could easily be dead by now.

“We’ll know if someone is addicted soon enough,” he said.  Symptoms would appear within a day or so, hopefully before they actually tried to fly a starfighter.  It would play merry hell with his training schedule if they had to force everyone to wait until someone either showed signs of withdrawal or nothing happened within two to three days.  “Maybe they didn't have time to become addicted.”

He sighed.  The last group of pilots might have included some of the dregs of the service, but at least they hadn't been complete newcomers.

“We’ll have to hope,” he said.  “What else did we find?”

He cast an eye over the small pile.  There were several small bottles of alcohol – they’d go into the R&R collection – a small handful of unidentified pills that had to be illicit drugs and a number of datachips.  Probably pornography, Kurt decided, and probably something not entirely acceptable in polite company.  He picked up the chip, toyed with inspecting it, then dropped it into the disposer.  Moments later, the drugs and all of the datachips had been destroyed.

“Check the bottles, then put them in the shared stockpile,” he ordered Rose.  “As long as these are the only problems we should be fine.”

“I can't say I’m impressed,” the XO said.  “There should be punishment duties at the very least.”

Kurt eyed her, stung.  “Commander,” he said, “these are young and stupid rooks, not experienced pilots.  Mistakes – and attempts to parse out the limits of the rules – are fairly standard for them.”

“Between them,” the XO said, “they have been forced to pay out over a thousand pounds, merely to replace items of clothing they forgot to bring.  I don't think it bodes well for discipline.”

The hell of it, Kurt knew, was that he agreed with her.  It didn't bode well for discipline, particularly in the cramped confines of a carrier’s pilot barracks.  But, at the same time, he knew that most of the newcomers had barely enough training to get through the intensive course.  They’d certainly not been taught anything past piloting, perhaps in the hopes they’d pick it up while on deployment, and it showed.  By God, it showed.

“They have only had three months of training, Commander,” he said, carefully.  “I believe we will have plenty of time to teach them how to comport themselves as proper crewmen as well as pilots.”

“I hope you’re right,” the XO said.  “Have you completed the inspections?”

Kurt nodded, once.

“The Captain wishes to speak with you, as soon as convenient,” the XO said.  “I suggest you go now.”

“Yes, Commander,” Kurt said.  He’d been in the Navy long enough to know that when the Captain called, you went at once, unless there was a genuinely life-threatening emergency underway.  And there wasn't one now.  “I’ll go see him at once.”

***
James was working his way through yet another set of paperwork when the hatch buzzed, informing him that someone was waiting outside.  He hit the switch to open the hatch, then pushed the handful of terminals to one side as Wing Commander Schneider entered the small compartment.  The Wing Commander looked tired, even though he'd had several days of leave between his last assignment and the return to Ark Royal.  But there was no time to consider the problem now.

“I’m sorry for summoning you,” he said, as he motioned for the CAG to sit down.  He was gloomily aware that his voice sounded awkward.  “But there is a topic I have to discuss.”

“Yes, sir,” Schneider said, sitting down.

James frowned.  The CAG sounded ... guilty.  Perhaps he thought James was going to blame him for the poor inspection results, particularly as Schneider had been one of the instructors at the Academy.  But James had no intention of throwing the blame around so unpleasantly, not when he remembered being a young and stupid graduate himself.  He’d had some wild times in Sin City too.

“You have a pilot assigned to your command,” James said, carefully.  He wished he could just tell Schneider the truth, but it would make it harder for him to give a honest answer.  “I believe you also taught him at the Academy.  His name is Charles Augustus.”

Schneider looked puzzled, yet oddly relieved.  “Sir?”

“I need to know your impressions of him,” James said.  “What do you make of him?”

He cursed, inwardly, as Schneider considered.  The CAG was far from stupid – and it was rare for a starship’s commanding officer to take any interest in a single junior crewman, unless the crewman had done something very good or very bad.  He would deduce that there was some reason for the interest and do ... what?  The Royal Navy was generally very good at preventing predators from rising to positions of power, but there had been some failures ...

“He’s certainly capable,” Schneider said, finally.  “Smart, motivated, rarely makes the same mistake twice ... and one of the very few not to forget anything when the rooks were shipped from the Academy to the Old Lady.  But he has a chip on his shoulder about something, sir, and I don't know about what.  His file is curiously light.”

James groaned, inwardly.  A light file suggested a false name; indeed, a complete false identity.  And that meant that people very high up in the Admiralty had signed off on creating the identify for Charles Augustus.  It wouldn't be hard to deduce his true identity from the simple lack of many other prospective candidates.

“I expect you to keep an eye on him,” James said, finally.  “But you are not to discuss this with him at all.  Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Schneider said.  “Can I discuss it with the Wing Commanders?”

“His, perhaps,” James said.  “No one else.  No one else at all.”

Chapter Ten

“The new bombers seem to be working well,” Ted observed.  On the display, they were launching their torpedoes a safe distance from the enemy starships.  “But they’re still threatened by enemy weapons.”

“Yes, sir,” Lopez said.  She glanced down at her terminal.  “They do give us some additional striking power.”

Ted nodded.  The missiles the bombers had once carried had been replaced by EMP-pulsars and bomb-pumped laser warheads.  Humanity had produced hundreds of nukes a year even before the war, using them to push asteroids towards their destinations or heating up a pair of very cold worlds.  Now, they were used – once again – as weapons of war.  But Ted had a feeling that they were going to need many more nukes than humanity could produce before the war came to an end.

He sucked in his breath as the simulated aliens realised they were under attack and returned fire, spilling out tens of thousands of plasma bolts in the hope of wiping out the missiles before they made contact.  Most of them missed completely, but the aliens were pumping out so much sheer firepower that it hardly mattered.  One by one, the missiles winked out of existence, leaving only a couple to detonate and send laser bursts burning into the alien hull.

“We may need to launch pulsars first,” he said.  “EMP screws up their plasma weapons, we know.”

He sighed.  Humanity had adapted, reacted and overcome ... but what were the aliens doing, only a handful of jumps away?  The absence of any major attack since Ark Royal had returned home suggested they were planning something, even though some peaceniks dared to hope that the aliens had decided to sue for peace, now they’d taken a bloody nose.  But the two attempts to make contact had ended in tragedy when the aliens had blown both of the peace ships out of space.  Either they’d seen the transmissions as a challenge to do battle or they’d simply not been interested in talking.

Shaking his head, he turned to look at his Flag Lieutenant.  “Draw up a plan for more overall exercises,” he ordered.  “We need to prepare to adapt to new realities.”

He looked back at the display, just in time to see a flight of alien starfighters materialise from nowhere and fall on one of the American carriers like wolves on a flock of sheep.  The Americans fought back savagely – this time, their armour could soak up alien fire – but it wasn't enough.  As soon as parts of the armour failed, the aliens concentrated their fire and blew their way right into the hull.  Moments later, it was all over; the aliens scattered as the American carrier blew apart into flaming debris.

“We’ll also need to keep half our starfighters back for defence,” Ted observed. The Americans had weakened their fighter cover and paid the price.  “Pity we can't simply reconfigure the interior too.”

“Yes, sir,” Lopez agreed.

Ted looked down at the live feed from the umpires, who were monitoring the exercise from afar.  The various national units had learned to work together, even though they were still a little shaky in places, but it hadn't really mattered.  No matter what they did, there was no evading the fact that five out of six carriers – seven out of eight, if the smaller carriers were included – were hellishly vulnerable.  They’d just have to pray the aliens didn't mount a serious attack.  If there had been time to build more heavily armoured ships ...

“The armour did hold up longer than expected,” Lopez said.  “It’s a promising sign.”

“And what happens,” Ted asked reasonably, “when the aliens start producing better weapons?  We already know they have a mid-range plasma gun.  They might just improve the weapons their starfighters carry and then we’d be in real trouble.”

He sighed.  “But we don’t have any other cards to play,” he added.  “All we can do is keep working on the simulations and hope that the aliens don’t come up with any other surprises.”

“Yes, sir,” Lopez said.

Ted was still mulling over the problems when he summoned his senior officers to a conference, two hours later.  This time, most of them attended via hologram, reluctant to leave their ships for even a few short hours.  Ted didn't really blame them.  The aliens might launch an attack on Sol at any time, whereupon the fleet would be expected to go into battle as part of Earth’s defence force.  There was no way to know if the aliens had the Sol System under observation, but Ted wouldn't have bet against it.  Humanity did it’s best to keep an eye on the New Russia system too.

“Our carriers are still strikingly vulnerable,” he said, once they had reviewed the results of the previous set of exercises.  “We’re going to have to hold back nearly two-thirds of our starfighters to provide cover – and use drones to create false targets for the aliens.  Even so, it’s going to be a major headache for us.”

It would be worse than that, he knew.  If the aliens just came at them, without any regard for losses, the lightly-armoured carriers would be wiped out in one single pass.  After that, the aliens would just concentrate their attacks on Ark Royal until the Old Lady was battered into scrap.  It would happen, sooner or later, despite her armour.  Or the aliens would come up with something new.  He gritted his teeth at the thought.

“Then we have to keep them focused on their own defence,” Captain Bellerose said.  “If we remain hidden, we might manage to get a striking force into attack range without being detected.”

“Perhaps,” Ted said, “but we don't know just how capable the alien sensors actually are.”

“Then maybe we should reconsider the operation,” Captain Atsuko said.  The Japanese officer looked uncomfortable as all eyes swung to him.  “We agreed to take risks to win the war, or at least knock the aliens back on their heels, but not outright suicide.”

Ted concealed his private amusement.  Japanese tactics in their wars had often been alarmingly close to suicide.  Maybe they’d learnt something from two bloody defeats ... or maybe they were merely concerned about losing one of their carriers.  Edo might well be targeted by the aliens if they decided that Earth was too heavily defended to be worth attacking, at least until humanity had been weakened considerably.  The Japanese couldn't afford to lose a carrier for nothing.

“The operation is not suicide,” the Rhino boomed.  “It is merely very dangerous.  I don't think any of us believed otherwise.”

Ted tapped on the table before the others could start taking sides.  “We will continue to review our tactics,” he said.  “In particular, we will work on forcing our pilots to work together ...”

***
“It could have been worse,” Kurt said.  “And we learned a great deal from our failures.”

He sighed, knowing that none of his superiors would be impressed.  The rooks had learned the basics, true, but they hadn't mastered the tricks experienced pilots had learned through actual combat.  Most of the rooks had been killed, either through poor flight discipline or alien stealth.  Fortunately, it had all been simulated.  But he hadn’t hesitated to make it clear to the pilots that they couldn't afford such losses in a real battle.

“It could have been worse,” Admiral Smith repeated.  “What did you learn from your failures?”

“The rooks learnt that they needed more practice,” Kurt said.  “We put them up against the American Black Knights, sir; the Americans wiped the deck with them, even though they were badly outnumbered.  I think there won’t be so much grumbling in future about endless exercises.”

He sighed, again.  It had been five days since the rooks had arrived and he’d spent far too much of his time monitoring their exercises, lecturing them on their flaws and waiting grimly for the first actual fatality.  Somehow, he doubted the aliens would be the first to kill one of the rooks.  It was much more likely that their inexperience would get one of them killed first, no matter what precautions he took.

“Keep working on them,” the Admiral ordered.  “The Admiralty has been urging us to leave as soon as reasonably possible.”

Kurt swallowed.  He hated to admit failure, but it might save lives.  The rooks didn't deserve to die when some of them had the makings of very good pilots.  “Sir,” he said, “the rooks will not be ready for quite some time.  Is there no way we can request more experienced pilots from the Earth Defence Force?”

“The Admiralty doesn't want to give any of them up,” the Admiral said.  “Under the circumstances, it’s hard to blame them.”

“I know,” Kurt said.  He’d been briefed on Operation Nelson two days after the rooks had arrived.  Since then, he and his Wing Commanders had worked them so hard that several of the rooks had dreamed of flying starfighters in their bunks.  But if nothing else, they were just too tired to have many discipline problems away from the cockpits.  “But it’s going to get a large number of pilots killed.”

“Keep working on them,” the Admiral ordered.  “We don’t want to lose any time for training before we leave.”

“Understood,” Kurt said.  “When do you want to leave?”

“A week, no longer,” Admiral Smith said.  “After that, I have a feeling the Admiralty will order us out anyway.”

“I’ll go back to training,” Kurt said.  He half-rose to his feet.  “With your permission?”

Admiral Smith nodded.  “Keep me informed,” he said.  “And watch everyone carefully.”

Kurt stood and retreated through the hatch.

***
“He’s right, Admiral,” James said.  “We are in a worse position, training-wise, than we were before we headed to New Russia.”

Admiral Smith nodded, suddenly looking much more tired.  “It can’t be helped,” he said, bitterly.  “Everything we see at New Russia suggests the aliens are trying to build up overwhelming force and then come straight at Earth.  They might well win, too, and if that happens we’re in deep trouble.  If we can knock them off balance, just for a few short months, it might make the difference between victory and defeat.”

James scowled.  He’d made an effort to catch up on international politics after chatting with his Uncle Winchester and he’d come to the conclusion that several nations didn't want the British to hog all the glory.  Or, for that matter, they didn't want the aliens to take the time they needed to prepare themselves and attack Earth.  Or ... that they merely wanted the war to end before it destroyed the economy.  Striking deep behind enemy lines would hopefully scare hell out of the aliens, perhaps even bring them to the negotiation table.  And maybe it would even shorten the war.

He remembered some of the classified documents he’d accessed through the fleet’s datanet and felt his scowl deepening.  No one had really expected to have to move to a wartime footing and the contingency plans, such as they were, had proved largely inadequate.  British industry – and American, French, Chinese and Russian – had worked miracles, yet much more was needed to keep the human race in the war.  Matters weren't helped by the urgent need to share technology, design a shared class of carriers and battleships and a hundred other problems, each one needing to be massaged carefully into submission.  There were quite a few people who would prefer the war to come to an end, sooner rather than later.

I’m one of them, he thought, bitterly.  But the bastards won't even talk to us.

“If,” he said.  “Admiral, there's one hell of a lot of work to do.”

“No arguments there,” Admiral Smith said.  He paused, then smiled.  “How are you enjoying command?”

James hesitated.  “It’s a huge responsibility,” he said.  “But I will cope with it, sir.”

“I hope so,” Admiral Smith said.  “And our royal passenger?”

“Seems to be among the better rooks,” James said.  “I read his file, then reviewed his progress in the training simulators.  He definitely has talent, Admiral; he’d probably go far if he wasn't a prince.  But, at the same time, he’s got a temper and a massive chip on his shoulder.  That will get him into deep trouble one day, sir.”

“Almost certainly,” Admiral Smith agreed.  “If he’d gone through the normal course, he would either have been forced to straighten up by one of the upperclassmen or would have been regretfully sent back to civilian life.  Hell, his attitude would make him an ideal Marine, once the chip was hammered off his shoulder.  But he’s through the course and talented enough to be worth saving.  If we can save him.”

James remembered his childhood and winced, remembering precisely what sort of little boy he’d been until his father had hammered some sense into his head – and the First Space Lord had chosen to deny his manipulations.  His sense of entitlement hadn’t been fully abandoned until he’d realised just how close he’d flown to absolute disaster.  In hindsight, he couldn't help wondering if his family and the aristocracy had given him enough rope so he could hang himself with it.

“I can speak to him,” he said, softly.  He could certainly muster a lecture for the young man who might be King.  “Or I can bring Amelia and Commander Schneider into the secret.  One of them could help to keep him in line ...”

“No,” the Admiral said.  He sounded firm enough that James decided it wasn't worth trying to change his mind.  “We don’t want to share the secret any wider than strictly necessary, James.  The more people who know, the greater the chance of rumours leaking out.”

“We should be telling everyone,” James said, tiredly.  “Let them all see that Prince Henry is on the front lines.”

He shook his head.  “But then the Opposition would accuse the Government of trying to create a martyr,” he added.  “Or of using Prince Henry for propaganda.  Or of trying to pander to the people who think aristocracies are inherently evil.”

“It would also make it impossible for the prince to have anything resembling a normal life,” Smith said, quietly.  “You know how crawling some people can become, don’t you?”

James flushed, embarrassed.  “Yes, sir,” he said, quietly.  His career had included quite a bit of nepotism.  “But Prince Henry won’t have any real power, even if he becomes the King.”

“A word in the right set of ears can be quite effective,” Admiral Smith pointed out.  “And not everyone really grasps how little formal power the monarchy has, even today.”

He met James’s eyes.  “If worst comes to worst,” he said, “you can have a long chat with him and make him realise that if he wants to have his career, he has to damn well live up to it.  And if that fails ... well, there’s always the brig.”

“Sir?”

“I read up on Prince Henry after this bombshell was dropped in our laps,” Admiral Smith said, darkly.  “I have a certain amount of sympathy for his position, but not enough to overlook any major disciplinary problems.  And I’m damned if I’m risking lives just to let him play at being a starfighter pilot.  He had his chance to walk away and blew it.”

James nodded.  Traditionally, after the first month of military training, recruits were offered the chance to leave.  Prince Henry – Charles Augustus, he reminded himself sharply – had chosen to stay.  He could take the consequences of his decision.

Admiral Smith stood.  “I’ll discuss the remainder of the training schedule with the rest of the officers,” he said.  “Thankfully, none of them seem to want to stand on ceremony.  Once we’re done, I think we’ll set our departure date as one week from now, as the Admiralty wants.  And pray they don’t want us to leave sooner.”

“Understood,” James said.  He changed the subject, slightly.  “The drive modifications have been completed, at least.”

He winced at the thought.  It would be hard for the aliens to burn through Ark Royal’s armour, but they would have no difficulty shooting off the modified drive systems which would allow the carrier to use the alien tramlines.  Once they were gone, Ark Royal would be stranded deep within alien-controlled territory, dependent on searching out human-usable tramlines to escape.  Somehow, he doubted the aliens would let them escape a second time.

“Let us hope that some of the promise really comes true,” Smith agreed.  “If they do, the universe will change completely.”

James smiled.  The human race had never really realised that the tramlines could be manipulated, but the aliens had developed their own systems for doing just that.  Now that an alien drive system was in human hands, they were already talking about ways to improve on the alien tech, even perhaps manipulating a tramline so anyone coming down it arrived at a preset point.  That alone, he knew, would change the face of modern warfare.  Knowing precisely where the enemy would materialise would be a colossal advantage.

“I could use some of those promises,” he said.  If they came up with something the aliens had missed, it would give them a very bloody nose.  “But, for the moment, we have to play with what we have right now.”

The Admiral nodded, then walked towards the hatch and slipped out of the cabin.  James felt an odd mix of wistfulness and guilt; once, his cabin had belonged to the Admiral.  And he, like Prince Henry, had tried to get into Smith’s position through family connections.  But the Prince had tried to hide his identity.  It spoke well of him.  James hadn't come to realise the dangers in having so many connection until he was much older.

Poor bastard, he thought.  He was honestly unsure which of the two he meant; himself ... or Prince Henry.  But at least he’s trying more than I ever did.

With that, he picked up the terminal and went back to his paperwork.