Fear God And Dread Naught

(Ark Royal, Book VII)

Christopher G. Nuttall

Book One: Ark Royal
Book Two: The Nelson Touch
Book Three: The Trafalgar Gambit
Book Four: Warspite
Book Five: A Savage War of Peace
Book Six: A Small Colonial War
Book Seven: Vanguard
Book Eight: Fear God And Dread Naught

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Cover by Justin Adams

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Cover Blurb

On her last cruise, HMS Vanguard - the most powerful battleship in the Royal Navy - barely survived her encounter with a deadly new enemy.  Now, with her commanding officer accused of everything from mutiny to dereliction of duty and her crew under a cloud, the Royal Navy doesn't quite know what to do with her.

But there’s still a war on.  And Vanguard must return to the front lines.

Assigned to a task force heading to assist humanity’s alien allies, Vanguard and her crew find themselves caught in a deadly alien trap.  Can they survive to turn the tables on their enigmatic foe ...

... Or will their next encounter with the new enemies be their last?

Author’s Note

Fear God and Dread Naught is the direct sequel to Vanguard, but it calls upon a handful of characters from the previous two trilogies - and one of them, Prince Henry, plays a fairly major role.  All you really need to know about him is that he was a starfighter pilot during the First Interstellar War (with the Tadpoles) who got captured and played a major role in peace talks.  Since then, he has been assigned to Tadpole Prime as Earth’s Ambassador.

As always, reviews, comments and suchlike are warmly welcomed.  Please feel free to forward spelling corrections and suchlike to me.

Finally, please follow my blog and/or mailing list for future releases.  I’ve discovered that Facebook doesn't share my posts with all of my followers.

Thank you

CGN

Prologue

Published In British Space Review, 2216

Sir.

In their recent letters, the Honourable Gordon Cameron and General Sir David Anilines (ret) both asserted that Britain - and humanity - has no legal obligation to go to the aid of the Tadpoles, even though human ships were attacked and destroyed during the Battle of UXS-469.  They claim that we can pull back and allow the Tadpoles to face the newcomers on their own.

I could not disagree more.

The blunt truth is that the newcomers attacked a joint task force composed of ships belonging to both ourselves and the Tadpoles.  They made no attempt to open communications; they merely opened fire (which is, in itself, a form of communication).  Their attack came alarmingly close to capturing or destroying over thirty warships from five different nations, including the Tadpoles.  They followed up by invading a number of Tadpole-held star systems, culminating with a thrust at a major colony that would, if captured, have opened up access to tramlines leading towards Tadpole Prime.  Those are not the actions of the innocent victims of unthinking aggression.  They are the actions of an aggressor.

We do not know - we have no way to know - what our new opponents are thinking.  They may be so xenophobic that an immediate offensive is their only possible response to any alien contact, although the proof that we are in fact facing two unknown races seems to render this unlikely.  Or they may merely be an aggressive, expansionist race taking advantage of the contact to snatch as much territory as possible.  Given their technical advantages, we dare not assume that the whole affair is a simple misunderstanding.  Nor do we dare assume that communications have merely been poorly handled and the matter will be solved through simple negotiation.  We are at war.

From a cold-blooded perspective, fighting the war well away from the Human Sphere has a great deal to recommend it.  Human colonies and populations will not be at risk.  We can and we will trade space for time, if necessary; there will certainly be no messy political repercussions from military missteps so far from Earth.  Keeping the war as far from our major worlds as possible cannot do anything, but work in our favour.

But there is another point - one of honour.  We gave our word to the Tadpoles that we would uphold the Alien Contact Treaty.  Are we now to welsh on the treaty we proposed and drafted?  Are we now to confirm to the Tadpole Factions that humans are truly untrustworthy?  And should we write off the deaths of over thirty thousand human spacers we can ill afford to lose?  Their deaths cry out to be avenged.  

No one would be more relieved than I, should we find a way to communicate with our unknown foes.  But I have seen nothing that suggests that communication - meaningful communication - is possible.  We may be dealing with a mentality that will refuse to negotiate until they are given a convincing reason to negotiate or we may be dealing with a race that we cannot talk to, whatever we do.  The only way to guarantee the safety and security of the Human Sphere is to assist our allies and make it clear, to our new foes, that human lives don’t come cheap.  And if we are unable to convince them to talk to us, then we must carry the offensive forward and strike deep into their territory.

The galaxy is a big place.  But it may not be big enough for both of us.

Admiral Sir Tristan Bellwether, Second Space Lord (ret).

Chapter One

“Henry,” the First Space Lord said.  He rose to his feet as Henry was shown into his office and held out a hand in greeting.  “It’s been a long time.”

“Longer for you than for me,” Ambassador Henry Windsor said.  He hadn't visited Nelson Base since the endless series of debriefings, after he returned from Tadpole space.  “It’s been quite some time since we served together on Ark Royal.”

“True,” the First Space Lord agreed.  He shook Henry’s hand, then motioned him to take a comfortable chair.  “I remember when you were just a fledgling fighter pilot.”

“And I remember when you were a mere captain,” Henry said.  He smiled, rather tiredly, as he took his seat.  “It's definitely been a very long time.”

He studied his former commanding officer thoughtfully as the First Space Lord ordered tea and biscuits.  Admiral Sir James Montrose Fitzwilliam had been a dark-haired young man - some would say an overambitious young man - when he’d talked his way into the XO slot on HMS Ark Royal.  His dark hair had shaded to grey and there were new lines on his face, but Henry still had no trouble seeing the face of the man he’d liked and respected, even when he'd been called out on the carpet for hiding his true identity from his lover.  And yet, there was a strain there that Henry found somewhat disconcerting.  Admiral Fitzwilliam had commanded the task force that had recovered the Pegasus System and defeated the Indians seven years ago, but it had been too long since he’d stood on a command deck.

“You’ve been back on Earth for a month,” the First Space Lord said.  “How are the kids?”

“Safe on my estate,” Henry said, bluntly.  “They’re complaining about being prisoners, but at least they’re safe from the parasites outside the walls.”

“The media,” the First Space Lord agreed.  “And to think I thought the King intended to welcome them at court.”

Henry shook his head.  “Over my dead body,” he said.  “None of the girls are going to grow up in a goldfish bowl, certainly not without any real reward at the far end.”

“A commendable attitude,” the First Space Lord said.  “But what are you going to do about their education?”

“I’ll hire tutors,” Henry said.  He looked up as the aide reappeared, carrying a tray laden with tea and biscuits.  “They’re certainly not going to boarding school.”

He sighed inwardly as the aide poured them both a cup of tea then retreated, as silently as she had come.  Paeans had been written to the British Boarding School - he had a sneaky feeling that the people who’d written them had never actually been there - but his three daughters were not going to attend.  He didn't remember his school years very fondly and he’d had the advantage of being a strong boy, with unarmed combat training from a couple of his bodyguards.  Being sent away from home had left scars that had never truly healed.

And it was worse for my sister, he thought.  No wonder she clings so hard to the throne.

He took a sip of his tea - it was excellent, of course - and then leaned forward, resting the cup on the armrest.

“I assume you know why I’m here,” he said.  “It certainly took a while to secure an appointment.”

The First Space Lord didn't bother to dissemble.  “Susan Onarina.”

“Correct,” Henry said.  He met the older man's eyes, reminding himself - sharply - that they were no longer senior officer and junior officer.  “My contacts inform me that no final decision has been reached on her case.”

“That is correct,” the First Space Lord said.  He shifted, uncomfortably.  “There have been issues ...”

“It’s been a month,” Henry interrupted.

“Collecting evidence for the Board of Inquiry can sometimes take much longer, as you well know,” the First Space Lord said.  “This is a question of mutiny in the face of the enemy.”

“Bullshit,” Henry said.

The First Space Lord lifted his eyebrows.  “I beg your pardon?”

Henry stared back, evenly.  “Should I have said bovine faecal matter?”

He plunged on before the First Space Lord could say a word.  “Let us be blunt, Admiral,” he insisted.  “Susan Onarina assumed command of HMS Vanguard in the middle of a battle.  I do not believe that fact is in dispute.  But it is also clear that the battleship’s former commander, Captain Sir Thomas Blake, froze up in the middle of two consecutive combat operations.  If she had not taken command, in the manner she did, we would be mourning an additional fifteen thousand spacers.”

“That’s one interpretation of the data,” the First Space Lord said, icily.

“It isn't just my interpretation of the data,” Henry noted.  “The Yanks have ... requested ... permission to award her the Navy Cross for her actions, which saved the lives of several thousand American spacers too.  Captain Owen Harper - they’ve bumped him up to Rear Admiral now - has considerable reason to be annoyed at her, but his report - which accidentally found its way across my desk - praises her to the skies.  You know how touchy the Americans are about placing their ships under outside command.”

He took a breath.  “I believe the only other naval officer with that honour, in recent memory, was Theodore Smith.”

Something flickered in the First Space Lord’s eyes.  “The Americans do not dictate what we do - or don’t do - with our personnel.”

“No, they don’t,” Henry agreed.  “But sooner or later, they’re going to actually want to award her that medal - and it will be pretty fucking embarrassing if we have to explain to the media cockroaches that she’s in Colchester awaiting court martial.”

He picked up one of his biscuits and dunked it in his tea as he spoke.  “And, by law, formal court martial proceedings have to be public,” he added.  “It will set the government up for a disastrous political catfight at the worst possible time.”

“She does have the option of retiring quietly,” the First Space Lord pointed out.

“Which is as good as an admission that there’s no real case against her,” Henry snapped.  “I have the recordings, sir; I have the data records.  Blake was a crawling sycophant who should never have been promoted above Midshipman, let alone put in command of our largest and most powerful battleship!  He was damn lucky that Admiral Boskone didn't realise just how badly he screwed up during the war games or he would probably have been brutally strangled on his own command deck.”

“Blake was a good officer, once,” the First Space Lord said, quietly.

“He wasn't when he assumed command of Vanguard,” Henry said.  He made an effort to moderate his tone.  “I’m not going to second-guess the officers who put him in charge, sir, but my reading of the situation is that his former XO was covering for him.  It would have taken a toll on anyone.  I’m not surprised that he deserted.

“And if that gets out,” he added, “all hell is going to break loose.”

“It may still break loose,” the First Space Lord admitted.  “Blake ... had a number of friends in high places.”

Henry groaned.  “And they’re the ones pressing for court martial,” he guessed.  “Because heaven forbid that such illustrious personages ever make a fucking mistake!”

“You’re an illustrious personage,” the First Space Lord snapped.  “You are still first or second in line to the throne ...”

“I took myself out of the line of succession,” Henry said.  “And I have never knowingly promoted someone above his level of competence.”

“Neither did they,” the First Space Lord countered.  “This was a terrible surprise to them too.”

“So they’re going to destroy an innocent woman, a woman we should be hailing as a hero, to cover their arses,” Henry snarled.  “And you are going to let them get away with it.”

He felt anger rising and choked it down, savagely.  It was the arrogance of the aristocracy that had driven him away from it, the arrogance of people who knew they held very real power and the will to use it.  And he, the Crown Prince of Great Britain and her Colonies, would have inherited nothing, if he’d taken the throne.  His role had been to be nothing more than a figurehead.  He honestly didn’t know why his father had chosen to stay on the throne for over thirty years.  Henry knew he would have gone stir-crazy within the month.

“I have very little choice,” the First Space Lord said.  “I ...”

“Bullshit,” Henry said, again.  “What happened to you?”

It was a struggle to keep his voice even, but he managed it.  “What happened to the commander who saw fit to ignore his instructions and save his superior’s career?  What happened to the captain who stood up to his admiral and told him to keep his nose out of command business?  What happened to the admiral who plotted the defeat of the Indian Navy and then carried it out?”

The First Space Lord slapped his desk, making the teacups rattle.  “I will not be spoken to like this.”

“Then it’s high time you remembered your duty,” Henry said, sharply.  “Your duty is to the men and women under your command, the men and women wearing naval uniform and risking their lives in combat.  Or have you been behind a desk long enough to forget what is really important?”

He leaned back in his chair, deliberately presenting a relaxed demeanour.  “The facts of the whole affair will get out, sir,” he warned.  “And when they do, the government will wind up with a shitload of rotten egg on its collective face.”

“I see,” the First Space Lord said.  “Is that a threat?”

“Merely a statement,” Henry said.  “There isn't a naval force in the Human Sphere that doesn't have copies of the combat records.  I’m surprised they haven’t leaked already.  And those combat records include statements from Captain Harper and myself.  Once they leak ...”

He leaned forward.  “Once they leak, everyone will see the government covering its arse at the expense of a genuine naval heroine’s career,” he added.  “God damn it, sir; you know how fragile the government’s position is right now.  The Opposition will not hesitate to take the whole affair and use it as a stick to beat the government to death.  And then we will run the risk of losing the right to promote our own officers without obtaining governmental permission, in triplicate.

“And you, the person who should be defending her, is sitting on the sidelines muttering about politics!”

“I cannot afford to risk my position, not now,” the First Space Lord snapped.  “If I ...”

“And what,” Henry asked, “would Admiral Smith think of that?”

The First Space Lord glared at him, his jaw working incoherently.  Henry watched him, wondering absently if he was about to be kicked out of the older man’s office.  The First Space Lord was no coward, whatever Henry might have implied.  His pride might lead him into a damaging political fight with no clear winner - with no possible winner - if he listened to it, rather than Henry.

“I suspect he might have changed, if he’d had to do battle with this job and its excessive paperwork,” the First Space Lord said, rather coldly.  He picked up his cup and took a long sip, clearly calming himself.  “What do you propose?”

Henry carefully hid his smile.  He’d won.

“I assume you know who backed Blake for command of Vanguard,” he said.  “Get them up here and explain, as thoroughly as you can, that Blake screwed up twice - and, the second time, he got a great many people killed.  There’s no way they can pin it on poor Susan Onarina.  They may destroy her career, if they try, but the facts will come out and Blake will be turned into a scapegoat for the entire battle.”

“They may not go for that,” the First Space Lord said.

“A handful of them will be former naval personages themselves,” Henry said.  It was traditional for the aristocracy to send at least one or two of their children into the military, normally the Royal Navy.  “They’ll understand.  And the ones who aren’t will have someone to explain it to them, even if they have to use words of one syllable.  They may not grasp the complexities of a naval engagement, but they will understand looming political disaster.”

“I confess I don’t share your faith in their rationality,” the First Space Lord mused.

Henry shrugged.  There was no shortage of inbred idiots amongst the British Aristocracy - in his nastier moments, he wondered if his sister had only one or two working brain cells - but the ones who managed to reach high rank tended to be very competent indeed.  And they would be ruthless enough to drop Blake like a hot rock, if patronising him raised the spectre of watching helplessly as their own positions were undermined.

“We will see,” he said.

He took a breath.  “At that point, you will inform them that the Board of Inquiry has decided that Captain Susan Onarina acted in the finest traditions of the Royal Navy, etcetera, etcetera and that it has recommended that she be confirmed as Vanguard’s commanding officer.  You will, of course, accept this recommendation.  And when they protest, as they will, you will also tell them that the Board of Inquiry has recommended that Captain Blake be given a medical discharge from the Royal Navy.  They will, I am sure, regard it as a way out of the mess they’ve managed to get themselves into.”

“And grab it with both hands,” the First Space Lord observed.  “Do you think the Board of Inquiry will cooperate?”

“A fair-minded Board of Inquiry will definitely produce a report that backs my conclusions,” Henry pointed out.  “Right now, I suspect they’re worried about the effects on their careers if they produce the wrong report, without actually knowing which one is the wrong report.  And if they seem reluctant, you can merely order them to come to the right conclusions.”

“Boards of Inquiry hate being leaned on,” the First Space Lord said.

“But it is a defensible position,” Henry said.  “And if it blows up, it will blow up in your face, not theirs.”

“I’m starting to think you don’t like me anymore,” the First Space Lord commented.  He smiled, rather thinly.  “You’ve changed, Henry.”

“I was an ambassador for over a decade,” Henry said.  He bit down the urge to ask just how much respect an admiral who was prepared to throw one of his subordinates under the shuttlecraft deserved.  His former commander was caught between two fires.  “I still am, technically.  And I have learned a great deal about how the universe works in that time.”

The First Space Lord smiled, again.  “And what about Blake himself?”

“My impression of him, towards the end of the voyage home, was one of relief,” Henry said, honestly.  “I think he will accept his pension and fade into obscurity.”

He sighed, inwardly.  Captain Blake hadn't impressed him, but the First Space Lord was right.  Blake had been a good officer once, before he’d lost his nerve.  Henry would have been sorry for him if he’d been smart enough to request relief before the shit hit the fan, but he understood.  No officer would request relief if there was any way it could be avoided, knowing that it meant the near-certainty of never seeing command again.  

You wouldn't have done it either, he told himself, dryly.  Would you?

He shook his head, dismissing the thought.  He’d been a starfighter pilot.  Even towards the end of the war, he’d never progressed beyond Squadron Commander ... and only then because everyone above him had been killed.  The Admiralty had promoted him to captain when he'd retired, but he’d never commanded a warship and probably never would.

“I will trust that you are right,” the First Space Lord said.  He cocked his head.  “Might I ask why you chose to beard me in my den?”

“The new aliens attacked us,” Henry said.  “They made no attempt to contact us; they made no attempt, either, to sound us out before opening fire.  Even the Tadpoles watched us from stealth before the war began.  But these new aliens?  Their behaviour is insane, which worries me.  Either they were waiting for us to enter their system before attacking or they merely attacked us on sight ...”

“That’s nothing new,” the First Space Lord said, sharply.

“No, it isn’t,” Henry agreed.  He’d spent most of the last month closeted with the xenospecialists as they struggled to make sense of what few scraps had been recovered from damaged or destroyed alien ships.  If politics - damnable politics - hadn't drawn him away, he would be there still.  “But we are at war, sir.  We need every capable officer we have ...”

He leaned forward.  “And destroying a young officer’s career for saving her ship - and a dozen others - is a dangerous mistake,” he added.  “What sort of message does that send to the navy?  Or have you been off the command deck for too long?”

“Touché,” the First Space Lord said.  He nodded, slowly.  “It will be done as you suggest, Henry.  And I suggest” - his voice hardened - “that you don’t speak to me like that again.”

“Of course, sir,” Henry said.  Why would he?  He’d won the argument.  “It was a pleasure meeting you again.”

“I’m sure it was,” the First Space Lord said.  He rose, terminating the meeting.  “My aide will show you back to your shuttle, Henry.”

“Thank you,” Henry said.  He rose, too.  “And you will tell Susan - Captain Onarina - the good news in person?”

“I suppose I should,” the First Space Lord said.  The hatch opened; his aide hurried into the chamber.  “Be seeing you, Henry.”

“I’m sure you will,” Henry said.  He shook his former commander’s hand, then turned to the hatch.  “But right now you have a war to fight.”

Chapter Two

The chamber was a prison.  A comfortable prison, to be sure, but still a prison.

Susan Onarina - who wasn't sure if she was a captain or a commander or on the verge of being put in front of a court martial board - lay back on the comfortable bed and sighed, heavily.  The suite was luxurious, easily more luxurious than her cabin on Vanguard, but there was a lock on the hatch and - she suspected - an armed guard on the far side.  She could amuse herself, between debriefings that often became interrogations, by watching hundreds of movies and television episodes stored in the room’s processor, taking long baths with seemingly unlimited water supplies or writing letters she knew would pass through a dozen hands before they reached their destinations, if they ever did.  But she couldn't leave.

She sighed again as she tried to force herself to relax.  It had been a month, a month when the only human company she’d encountered had been her guards and a number of high-ranking officers, none of whom had bothered to give their names before launching into the same questions, repeated over and over again.  She wasn't sure if they were desperately trying to pin something - anything - on her or if they were merely stalling for time, unsure just how to proceed.  She’d tried pointing out that regulations entitled her to both a clear statement of her position and legal advice, if she wished it, but they’d ignored her. It suggested that her fate, whatever it would be, wasn't going to be decided on Titan Base.

Giving up on relaxing, she sat upright and swung her legs over the side of the bed, dropping neatly to the deck.  Titan’s low gravity had been a shock at first - she wasn't used to working in low-gee environments - but she’d gotten used to it, after a few embarrassing incidents when she’d just arrived.  Striding over to the middle of the chamber, she launched herself into a series of calisthenics that - she hoped - would burn up a little energy.  She couldn't help feeling flabby after a month of inactivity, even though she’d tried hard to keep up with her exercise routines.  Not knowing what was going to happen to her was the worst.

But I would do it again, she told herself, firmly.  Whatever the price, I would do it again.

The thought made her scowl.  Thanks to the unnamed officers, she’d gone through the whole deployment, from her assignment to Vanguard to her ship’s return to Sol, and she knew she would do the same thing twice, even despite knowing it might see her put in front of a wall and shot.  It was hard to be sure how many lives she’d saved, but she knew that Captain Blake - wherever he was now - wouldn't have saved anyone.  She wondered, idly, if Captain Blake was currently bad-mouthing her to the Admiralty or if he'd taken advantage of the opportunity to quietly resign.  It was what she would have done, in his place.

And he lost a ship to something that might well be termed a mutiny, she thought, darkly.  He won’t get another command.

She smiled at the thought as she felt sweat running down her back.  Captain Blake hadn't been a monster, not like the legendary Captain Bligh, but she didn't regret her actions.  Blake had frozen up in combat, something that could easily have gotten the entire ship destroyed before he recovered himself or his superiors ordered him removed from command.  She might have pitied him, once upon a time, if he’d simply resigned when he realised he had a problem, but he’d stayed in the command chair.  And his reluctance to admit his own weakness had nearly cost him the ship.  It had certainly cost him his command - and any hope of flag rank.

There was a tap on the hatch.  Susan straightened up, glanced down at her sweat-stained underwear, then shrugged as she tapped the switch to open the hatch.  There was no point in trying to be modest, not in a prison suite.  She would have been astonished if there weren't pick-ups scattered all over the compartment, monitoring her every move.  She’d rarely had any real privacy since she’d joined the navy - she’d certainly never had a private cabin until she’d been promoted to lieutenant - but it galled her.  She was, at base, a prisoner.

The hatch hissed open, revealing a grim-faced military policeman.  Susan turned to face him, absently admiring the man’s professionalism.  But then, Titan Base had to be heaven when redcaps normally spent their days wrestling drunken squaddies in garrison towns or rooting spacers out of spaceport bars an hour before their shuttles were due to leave.  Susan might be in hot water, but she was neither drunk nor dangerous.  And even if she did decide to escape, getting off Titan Base would be damn near impossible.  No one had escaped since the base had been founded, over a century ago.

“Onarina,” the redcap said.  He didn't address her by rank.  They never did.  “You have been ordered to meet a visitor in thirty minutes.  Shit, shower and then knock on the hatch for relief.”

He turned without waiting for an acknowledgement and strode out of the chamber, the hatch hissing closed behind him.  Susan frowned, thinking hard.  A visitor?  The representative she’d requested?  Or a government lawyer coming to lay down the law?  It was nice to think that her friends or family would be clamouring to see her, but she knew it was extremely unlikely.  Her civilian friends - and her father - wouldn't be permitted on Titan Base, while her military friends had probably been advised to have as little contact with her as possible until her fate was decided.  She'd done everything she could to ensure that the blame could only fall on her, but she knew - all too well - that others would probably be smeared too.  A single person turning on her would have been enough to keep her contingency plan from going into operation.

And it would have killed us, she thought, as she walked into the washroom and turned on the shower, discarding her sweaty underwear in the basket.  Captain Blake would have lost the ship to the newcomers.

She pushed the thought aside as she washed herself clean, then dried herself thoroughly before donning her uniform.  They hadn't taken those, somewhat to her surprise.  She wasn't sure if it was a sign they knew they had no case against her or preparation for tearing off her rank badges and awards before throwing her arse in Colchester.  As soon as she was dressed, she glanced in the mirror.  The dark-skinned girl looking back at her, eyes tired and old, was almost a stranger.  She’d worked hard to claw her way up the ladder by sheer ability, but she might well lose everything, just for doing the right thing.  Bitter resentment welled up within her, mingled with quiet relief.  She’d saved the ship and much of the Contact Fleet.  It was something to remember when Admiralty REMFs tried to pin something - anything - on her.

The hatch hissed open when she tapped it, revealing two redcaps waiting for her.  There were no handcuffs, nothing to mark her as a prisoner, but she couldn't help feeling trapped as she fell in between them and walked through a series of unmarked hatches.  She’d tried to memorise the interior of the base, when she’d first arrived, but she was starting to think that the entire complex was designed to confuse the inmates.  She hadn't seen any other inmates either.

They stopped in front of a hatch, which hissed open.  Susan glanced at one of the impassive redcaps, then stepped into the tiny compartment.  A large metal table, bolted solidly to the deck, dominated the room; two chairs, one on each side, waited for her.  A tea machine and water dispenser sat against the far wall, which was a surprise.  She’d been allowed to drink water during the endless debriefings, but they’d always provided her with the water themselves.  Did they honestly think someone could kill with a plastic cup of water?

The hatch at the far side of the room hissed open.  Susan straightened automatically, even though she suspected it would be pointless.  Mutiny and disrespect for senior officers?  She’d never get a job with a record like that.  And then she saluted, sharply, as she recognised the man stepping into the room.  She’d never met the First Space Lord in person - and she doubted he remembered her from his speech at the academy - but he was unmistakable.

“Please, be seated,” the First Space Lord ordered.  He glanced past her to the redcaps.  “Dismissed, corporal.”

“Sir,” the redcap said.

Susan felt her head spinning as she heard the hatch opening and closing behind her.  The First Space Lord in person?  What did he want?  She sat down, carefully, then fought to keep her astonishment off her face as her superior - her ultimate superior - carefully poured them both a cup of tea.  It felt utterly surreal, as if she’d shifted into an alternate universe.  Surely he had minions for pouring tea.  As the junior, she should be pouring the tea!

“I need to talk bluntly,” the First Space Lord said.  He passed her the cup, then sat down facing her, resting his hands on the table.  “And you should understand, right now, that this conversation is not to be repeated.”

Susan nodded, curtly.  He was going to advise her to retire, she was sure.  There would be no need to bother with the performance if they were going to put her in front of a court martial board.  No, she’d be told to retire quietly with an unblemished record and be grateful.  If nothing else, she'd have a good chance at getting a post on a civilian ship ...

“The Board of Inquiry took longer than I had expected to come to a decision,” the First Space Lord said.  His voice was very even, but there was an undertone that bothered her.  “On one hand, you are guilty of mutiny against your senior officer; on the other hand, your actions made the difference between life and death for thousands of British and allied personnel.  It is fortunate that Captain Blake has foregone the chance to bring charges against you and has, instead, quietly resigned.”

It was hard, very hard, to keep the surprise from her face.  Susan’s mind whirled as she considered the implications.  There was no way that Blake’s resignation would be seen as a honourable act, not now.  It would be seen as an admission of responsibility, a confession that he bore some - perhaps all - of the blame for matters getting out of hand.  His patrons had to be stunned, she considered.  Or perhaps they’d advised him to jump, hoping to bury the whole affair as quickly as possible.  It was what she would have done, if she’d been a patron.

And if Blake had demanded a court martial, she thought, the Admiralty would have found it hard to deny him.

“You therefore pose something of a problem,” the First Space Lord continued.  “Mutiny is not something we can condone, but you did save the ship and countless lives.  Therefore” - he gave her a frosty smile - “your actions have been retroactively authorised.  This is not something I would advise you to bank on in future.”

“Yes, sir,” Susan said, stunned.

“That isn’t the only question over your conduct,” the First Space Lord added, after a long moment.  “According to your debriefing, you stated that you were aware of ... issues ... with Captain Blake shortly after you boarded Vanguard.  Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Susan said.

The First Space Lord eyed her thoughtfully.  “Why didn't you bring them to the attention of your superiors?”

Susan met his eyes.  “And what would have happened, sir,” she asked sharply, “if I’d done that?”

She pressed on, grimly.  “At best, I would have secured Captain Blake’s removal, but my career would have dropped like a stone,” she answered.  “No CO worthy of the title would want an XO who’d knifed her previous CO in the back, even if her actions had been officially condoned.  I would have been lucky to secure a post on an asteroid mining station in the middle of nowhere.  And at worst, Captain Blake would have retained his position and I would be dishonourably dismissed from the navy.”

The bitterness and frustration welled back up, forcing her to pause long enough to gather herself.  “I hoped the plan wouldn't be necessary, sir,” she said.  “If we hadn't faced a major engagement with unknown enemies, we wouldn't have needed to relieve Captain Blake of command.  We would have returned to Earth without anyone ever having to know that the plan had been devised at all.”

“But Blake would have been left in command,” the First Space Lord observed.

“Yes, sir,” Susan confirmed.  “What would you have done?”

“My commander nearly fell off the wagon,” the First Space Lord said.  It took Susan a moment to realise he was talking about Admiral Smith.  “I had written orders authorising me to assume command of the ship, if necessary.  And in the end, I chose to help him rather than put a bullet in his career.”

“And if you had,” Susan asked, “what would have happened to your career?”

She scowled.  “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“It’s a little late for that,” the First Space Lord noted.  “But yes, you may speak freely.”

“I was caught in a no-win situation,” Susan said.  “Whatever I did, I risked losing my career - and perhaps my life.  There were no good options, sir, and no one sitting on a comfortable chair in a ground-based office can magically pull one from his rear end.  Our regulations may claim to protect men and women who blow the whistle, but our culture does not.  Betraying one’s superior, even in a good cause, is a bad thing.”

“One might argue that choosing to do so shows significant moral courage,” the First Space Lord said.  

“One might also argue that significant moral courage doesn't pay the bills,” Susan pointed out, tartly.  “And that, after the accolades are gone, everyone that person works with will remember.”

“One might,” the First Space Lord agreed.

He leaned forward.  “As I said, the Board of Inquiry has retroactively authorised your actions on HMS Vanguard,” he stated.  “A copy of their final report will be made available to you, if you wish; for the moment, all you need to know is that you are officially in the clear.”

Susan nodded.  “What about my crew?”

The First Space Lord looked pained.  “Yes, you covered that nicely,” he said.  “Just about everyone involved cannot be charged with anything, as you painted yourself as the sole mover behind the ... contingency plan.  Given the situation, the Board of Inquiry has quietly decided to drop the issue.  I believe they will be advised to try to avoid plotting against their next commanding officer.”

Because there won’t be a second chance, Susan thought.

“You have been formally confirmed as commanding officer of HMS Vanguard, retroactively from the date you assumed command,” the First Space Lord continued.  “You’ll take a shuttle from Titan Base to L4, where you will ...”

Susan stared at him.  “I’m in command again?”

“Yes,” the First Space Lord said.  “Under the circumstances, it was either confirm you as Vanguard’s commanding officer or try to court martial you.  The former allows us to bury as much as possible of the affair before the media starts asking too many questions.  As far as anyone is concerned - and I suggest you stick with it - you spent the last month in a top-secret military base, assisting the analysts in studying the records from the battle.”

“Understood, sir,” Susan said.  She was in command?  She hadn't dared to hope she’d be allowed to return to Vanguard - or anything bigger than an asteroid mining base.  “Sir ... what is the ship’s condition?”

“Your presumptive XO has also been promoted and will brief you, upon your return to command,” the First Space Lord said.  “For now, suffice it to say that we will be sending a major task force to assist the Tadpoles.”

He rose.  “The guards will assist you in packing up before you leave this place,” he added, dryly.  Clearly, he knew as well as she did that she had nothing to pack.  “And one other thing?”

Susan rose, too.  “Yes, sir?”

“I understand that you were trapped in a hellish situation,” the First Space Lord said.  “And that it had political implications that were not immediately obvious to you.  And I do not blame you for the decisions you took.”

“Yes, sir,” Susan said.

“But ... the decisions you took could easily have been seen in a worse light,” the First Space Lord added.  “I suggest - very strongly - that you don’t do anything to blot your copybook over the next few years.  You’ve made a number of political enemies, Captain, and those enemies will stop at nothing to see your scalp being pinned to their walls.”

“I understand, sir,” Susan said, tiredly.  She understood more of the political and naval realities than she cared to admit.  She had no patrons of her own, no friends in high places.  If someone with a title wanted her gone, it wouldn't be long before they found a suitable excuse to dismiss her from the navy.  “It won’t happen again.”

“I should hope not,” the First Space Lord said.  “And remember, as far as anyone is concerned, this month never happened.  The records are sealed and will remain so until everyone involved is safely dead.”

“Of course, sir,” Susan said.  Behind her, the hatch hissed open.  “I won’t say a word.”

Chapter Three

“Welcome back, Your Excellency,” Doctor Katy Murray said.  “It’s been too long since we were last blessed with your presence.”

Henry sighed, inwardly, as Doctor Murray turned to lead him through the network of secure airlocks that led into the asteroid facility.  She was middle-aged and strikingly pretty, with red hair tied up in a neat little bun, but she was no research scientist.  Her file had made it clear that she was a political operator first and foremost, struggling desperately to secure as much funding and backing for the Wells Research Facility as possible.  Henry would have thought that funding wasn't in question - it wasn't as if their work wasn't important - but he did have to admit that the government sometimes had odd ideas about the correct way to allocate funds.  Doctor Murray might just have a point, even if she was a crawling sycophant.

And at least her heart’s in the right place, he thought.  There wasn't even a single hint that Doctor Murray was doing anything, but supporting her subordinates.  She isn’t prostituting herself for anything personal.

He pushed the thought aside as he followed her into her office, which was strikingly bare.  A large hologram floated in one corner, projecting an image from the oceans of Tadpole Prime, but the walls were bare, save for a single diploma in xenological research.  He wasn't surprised, really, that she hadn't chosen to practice afterwards, not when there were only a handful of genuine research slots to fill.  Instead, she’d moved into data analysis and then into management.

“I can get you tea or coffee, Your Excellency,” Doctor Murray said.  “Or would you rather something stronger?”

“Tea would be quite suitable,” Henry said.  He’d been forced to pose as a trencherman during innumerable ambassadorial dinners - he had a sneaking suspicion that several countries deliberately served the vilest food they could and claimed it was a local delicacy - but it wasn't something he cared for.  Alcohol led to bad decision making, a lesson he’d learned the hard way.  “And I’m afraid I don’t have much time.”

Doctor Murray looked disappointed.  It was genuine, as far as he could tell.

“We don’t see many visitors out here,” she said, as she called her aide and ordered tea.  “My staff would be delighted to know they haven’t been forgotten.”

“I would be surprised if anyone has forgotten about this place,” Henry said.  “Even before the recent engagement at UXS-469, this facility was hardly unimportant.”

“We’re orbiting on the far side of the sun,” Doctor Murray pointed out.  “Well out of sight and probably quite out of mind.”

Henry shrugged.  So far, humanity hadn't found any alien bacteria that could infect human beings - or vice versa - but no one was inclined to take chances.  Doctor Murray and her team knew, all too well, that there was a slight chance that something would mutate and pose a threat to human life - and, if it did, that the thermonuclear warhead buried at the centre of the facility would blow it into dust if medical science couldn't stop the outbreak in its tracks.  Just getting to the base required an intensive medical screening ...

... And, when he left, Henry knew he’d have to go through the whole unpleasant procedure again.

“There are strong reasons for your isolation,” he said, as the aide returned with a tray of tea and biscuits.  “And you’re not the only ones carrying out such research.”

“No,” Doctor Murray agreed.  She scowled.  “I understand the political realities, Your Excellency, but they are quite annoying at times.”

Henry nodded, shortly.  He’d hoped, after First Contact, that human research into alien biology could be consolidated, but none of the human powers had been particularly enthusiastic about sharing their notes.  Given what the Russians had tried to pull ... he shook his head, irritated.  Genetically-engineered viruses had posed a major threat, back during the Troubles, and still would if someone came up with an adaptive disease that defeated all current inoculations.  Henry would have preferred to ban all such research, but he knew it was impossible.  The only way to research cures was to research the diseases themselves.

He sipped his tea and listened, quietly, as Doctor Murray talked about her facility.  Much of what she said wasn't new to him, but there were details he hadn't heard before, including expanded security and under-the-table attempts by various scientists to share notes on alien biology with their foreign counterparts.  All such attempts had been reported, of course, raising the question of just who had authorised them.  Were the Russians attempting to share notes without appearing to share notes ... or were they just trying to get a handle on British progress?  There was no way to be sure.

“We did make some interesting discoveries regarding Unknowns #1 and #2,” Doctor Murray added.  Henry straightened up.  This was the important part.  “And I believe you requested to be briefed personally.”

“By the person who did the research,” Henry said.  He trusted Doctor Murray, but he’d fought enough political battles to know that data could be ... massaged between source and destination.  The bureaucracy was loathe, as always, to push bad news up the chain of command.  “Can you arrange for her presence?”

“Of course, Your Excellency,” Doctor Murray said.  She tapped her wristcom once, then looked back at him.  “I quite understand.”

Henry concealed his amusement behind a practiced mask.  He would have been surprised if Doctor Murray did understand - or, if she did, if she accepted it.  Bypassing her weakened her position in the bureaucratic hierarchy.  But he hadn't given her a choice, not really.  The new aliens were too important to allow bureaucratic bullshit to get in the way.

Particularly if I am to make it back to the estate before being dispatched back to Tadpole Prime, he thought.  I don’t want to leave before saying goodbye.

He scowled at the thought, silently cursing - again - the fate that had made him a prince, first in line to the throne.  His daughters - and his wife - were an object of intensive media attention ... and he wouldn’t be there to protect them, once he was on his way back to the front.  The cockroaches who called themselves reporters might not be able to get into the estate - his bodyguards were armed and had authority to engage anyone crossing the inner wall with lethal force - but some toad of a political representative would probably try to pressure them into making an appearance or two.  And without him, who knew what would happen?  He was damned if he was letting the media ruin his daughters like they’d ruined his sister.

The hatch opened.  “Doctor Song,” Doctor Murray said.  “Thank you for coming.”

Henry rose and held out a hand.  Doctor Song looked to be East Asian, with an oval face, almond eyes and long dark hair that fell to her shoulders.  She took his hand and shook it with a surprisingly firm grip, then held up a datachip.  Doctor Murray nodded to the room’s processor and motioned for her to plug it in.  Henry lifted his eyebrows - didn't they trust their internal communications network - and then sat back down.  Doctor Murray could run her little fiefdom in whatever way she wanted, he knew, as long as she got results.

“Unlocking the alien DNA-analogue has proved challenging,” Doctor Song said.  She had an enchanting voice.  Henry reminded himself, firmly, that he was a married man.  “We don’t believe we have put together enough of Unknown #2’s DNA to make any credible guesses as to their appearance, but we have learned a great deal about Unknown #1.”

She tapped a switch.  A holographic image - the internal structure of the fox-like aliens - appeared in front of them.  Henry felt a flicker of disquiet, knowing - at some level - that the aliens were far from human.  The similarities - the newcomers were more like humanity than either the Tadpoles or the Vesy - made it harder to accept the differences.  This, he was certain, was genuine competition.  Humanity could co-exist with the Tadpoles, but these aliens?

The galaxy might not be big enough for the two of us, he thought.  And isn't that worrying?

“Until we get a live specimen to examine,” Doctor Song informed him, “all of our conclusions are tentative.  However, we can say certain things with a great deal of certainty.”

She paused.  “The oddest aspect of these aliens,” she added, “is that they are functional hermaphrodites.  We’ve identified both penis-analogues and womb-analogues in some of the more intact alien bodies.  Unlike every other known race, there is no separation into male and female; there is only one sex, which combines the two.”

Henry frowned.  “Are you sure?”

“As sure as we can be,” Doctor Song said.  “As you can see” - she zoomed in on the alien pelvis - “this particular specimen has both a penis and a vagina-analogue.   My best guess is that they copulate doggy-style, perhaps taking turns to bend over.  I assume that pregnancy does something to their hormones, perhaps rendering sex impossible, but - again - there’s no way to be sure without a live specimen.  It's also possible that pregnancy doesn’t keep them from performing their jobs.”

“Odd,” Henry said.  He leaned forward, studying the display.  “What does this do to their society?”

“Impossible to say,” Doctor Song told him, gently.  “One of my researchers wrote up a detailed list of possibilities, which you are welcome to read, but they are rough guesses at best.  The aliens may alternate between siring or bearing children or they may determine who serves as the mother and who serves at the father when they mate.  We have no way to be sure.”

“I see,” Henry mused.  Would he have birthed one of his children, if he’d had a womb?  The whole concept felt profoundly unnatural.  Medical science had yet to find a way to give a man a proper womb.  “We’ll have to ask them, if we convince them to talk to us.”

Doctor Song nodded.  “Their hearing is markedly better than an unenhanced human’s,” she noted.  “I’d go so far as to say that a loud noise would hurt them more than it hurts us.  But they shouldn't have any problems communicating with us.  I think they will have problems speaking our languages - their mouths aren't designed to pronounce most of our words - yet they shouldn't have any problems understanding us, once we build up a working database of their tongue.  There’s no obvious reason why they shouldn't be able to communicate with us.”

She sighed.  “Particularly as they clearly do communicate with another intelligent race.”

Henry nodded.  “They’re both intelligent?”

“It would seem so,” Doctor Song said.  “And they’re clearly not related to each other.  You have more in common with a chimpanzee than our two unknowns have with one another.  I am ninety percent sure they’re from different star systems.”

“But you’re not certain,” Doctor Murray said.

“No, director,” Doctor Song agreed.  “But we’ve only encountered four other forms of intelligent life.  The odds against even one race reaching intelligence are staggering; the odds against two doing it in the same star system are beyond calculation.  I would bet half my salary that one race travelled to the other’s star system and made a conquest.”

“I wouldn't bet against you,” Henry said.  “I assume you don’t know which race is in charge?”

“We know nothing about their social structure,” Doctor Song said.  “All we have is speculation - and unproductive speculation at that.”

Henry nodded.  “What else can you tell me about them?”

“The Foxes - for want of a better word - are probably very fast,” Doctor Song said, reluctantly.  “It’s impossible to be absolutely sure” - Henry hid his irritation with an effort - “but we found traces of something that resembles an organic booster drug within their bloodstreams.   I think that, if challenged, they will be able to boost themselves automatically, probably without the side effects noted by our military.  They’ll be used to the drugs.”

“I see,” Henry said.  He’d heard a great deal about combat drugs, but all of them had dangerous drawbacks that rendered them unsuitable for deployment.  A soldier might be boosted for a short period, yet afterwards he’d be lucky to survive long enough to reach medical treatment.  “How long will the boost last?”

“Probably no more than thirty minutes, which may be a very conservative estimate,” Doctor Song told him.  She altered the display, showing him the drug glands buried within the alien’s neck.  “I suspect the drug also affects their liver-analogue, forcing it to cleanse their blood at a truly frightening speed.  But I think if they were pushed, they’d be in deep trouble when they finally came off the drug.”

“They’ll know it too,” Henry mused.

“I don’t see how they couldn't know it,” Doctor Song said.  “But we were surprised when someone dropped an orgy bomb in Birmingham.”

Henry winced.  Someone - and years of investigation had never isolated a suspect, according to the files - had created a hormonal cocktail during the height of the Troubles and released it in a shopping mall in Birmingham, UK.  The result had been an absolute nightmare, with hundreds of shoppers driven wild with lust.  And the first responders, unsure just what they were about to encounter, had been affected too.  Dozens of people had been killed and the remainder had been badly traumatised.  Pheromone manipulation had been theoretically possible for years, but it was the first time anyone had experienced the potential on a large scale.  It had shocked Britain to the core.

Doctor Song went on, ruthlessly.  “Their hearing is probably better than ours, as I said,” she added, “and so is their sense of smell.  However, I’d bet that their eyesight isn't as effective as ours, at least in the daytime.  At night ... things may be different.  However, I’d be surprised if they didn't have the technology to even the odds.  We certainly do.”

“True,” Henry agreed.  “Did you spot anything to suggest genetic or technological enhancement?”

“No to the latter,” Doctor Song said.  “We didn't find a trace of implants or anything along the same lines.  There didn't even seem to be a basic neural link.  But genetically” - she shrugged, expressively - “we simply don’t understand their genetic code well enough to make any comments.  It took over a century to unlock many of the mysteries of the human gene code and ... well, we still make mistakes.”

Henry nodded.  The dream of enhanced humans, for better or worse, had yet to materialise.  It was easy enough to improve individual traits - his immune system was far tougher than that of his ancestors - but enhancing the entire human race?  There was no shortage of people who wanted to do just that; thankfully, they’d never actually gotten anywhere.  He had no doubt that ‘superior’ humans would eventually have turned on ‘inferior’ humans.

“I understand,” he said.

“I trust that you got what you came for,” Doctor Murray said.  “Our work here is important.”

“It is,” Henry agreed.  He looked at Doctor Song.  “Doctor, would you care to accompany the task force?”

Doctor Song stared at him.  “I am not a military officer,” she protested.  “I’ve never been on a warship in my life.”

“I need her here,” Doctor Murray added, sharply.  “Your Excellency ...”

“The country needs her expertise on the front lines,” Henry said, firmly.  “We don’t have time to send back biological samples, let alone live aliens.  Doctor Song will be assigned to an escort ship and, hopefully, have the first look at any captives we take.”

Doctor Murray scowled.  “And could you guarantee her safety?”

“No,” Henry said.  There was no point in trying to lie.  “But she would have a chance to make a very real difference.  This war ... this war may hinge on learning how to communicate with the newcomers.”

“Or learning how to kill them more effectively,” Doctor Song said, quietly.

“Exactly,” Henry said.  He took a breath.  “I can't force you to accompany the task force” - technically he could, but the last thing anyone wanted was a resentful xenospecialist - “but your presence would be very welcome.  It might make a considerable difference.”

Doctor Song looked at Doctor Murray, then back at Henry.  “Can I write a letter to my parents first, explaining why I’m leaving the system?”

“Of course,” Henry said.  “You’ll have at least a week to pack your supplies, including all the data and tools you think you’ll need, then you’ll be transported to the RV point to link up with the rest of the task force.  If you change your mind” - honour demanded he tell her, even though part of him suspected Doctor Murray would try hard to change her mind - “you need to let us know before the end of the week, so someone else can be invited in your place.”

“I understand,” Doctor Song said.  She took a breath.  “And I will come, if you need me.”

“We need someone,” Henry confirmed.  “I suggest you go write your letters now, then start planning for the trip.”

He waited until she had left the office, then looked at Doctor Murray.  “Don’t try to talk her out of this.”

“I need her,” Doctor Murray said, flatly.  “She isn't a military officer, Your Excellency.  Her expertise took years to develop.”

“That’s why we need her too,” Henry said.  “How long does it take to get a message from Earth to Tadpole Prime?”

“Two months,” Doctor Murray said.

“And this time the task force will be operating further from Earth,” Henry warned.  He knew she wouldn't understand, but he had to try.  “Having an expert on the spot, Doctor, may make the difference between life and death.”

“And so you’re taking a valuable researcher away from me,” Doctor Murray said.

“I’m taking her to where she can make an important contribution,” Henry said.  He rose, checking his watch.  There should be time to make it back to Nelson Base before the next round of briefings.  “And there will be plenty to be done back here, too.”

Chapter Four

“We’re approaching Vanguard now, Captain,” the pilot said.  “Do you want to come up front?”

Susan nodded and scrambled to her feet, hurrying forward until she was standing right behind the pilot and peering towards the L4 Shipyard.  Hundreds of starships, shuttlecraft and worker bees were buzzing around the complex - the human race was, once again, preparing for war - but her attention was helplessly drawn towards a cluster of lights waiting at the edge of the shipyard.  Illuminated by spotlights mounted on the spacedock, HMS Vanguard slowly took on shape and form as the shuttle approached.  Susan stared, memorising each feature anew.

My ship, she thought.  It was a hell of a reward - a sign, perhaps, that she did have friends in high places after all.  Even if her promotion to Captain was confirmed, she’d be a long way down the line to command a battleship.  And yet she’s all mine.

She pressed against the cockpit as the battleship grew larger.  The damaged hull plates had been removed, she noted; the destroyed turrets had been replaced, hopefully with their weak points heavily armoured or removed altogether.  No one had taken a battleship into combat until the war - the Second Interstellar War - had broken out; no one had realised, absent that very real combat experience, the true strength and weaknesses of the design.  HMS Vanguard had been through the fire, enduring more than any of her predecessors would have been able to handle, but the unknowns had come very close to destroying her.  

And if we had been a mite less lucky, she thought, we would have been destroyed.

The shuttle pilot circled the battleship once before shaping a course towards her officers dock, positioned towards the prow of the giant battleship.  It was traditional for a new commanding officer to arrive in the main shuttlebay, where her crew could greet her formally, but Susan had already been in command of the battleship.  There was no time to waste on pointless formalities, particularly formalities that did nothing beyond stroking her ego, when there was work to be done.  She strode back to her seat and collected her knapsack as a low thud echoed through the shuttle, followed by a hiss as her hatch opened slowly.

“Thank you for the flight,” she said, as she walked to the hatch.  “Are you heading straight back to Titan?”

“I have orders to report to Nelson Base,” the pilot said.  “Good luck, Captain.”

Susan nodded and stepped through the hatch, feeling the gravity quiver around her as she left the shuttle’s gravity field and entered Vanguard’s.  It felt harsh, after the lighter gravity of Titan, but she was damned if she was admitting any kind of weakness.  Besides, it wasn't as if a month was enough to cause muscle degradation, not with the enhancements spliced into her genetic code.  A week or two and she'd probably have forgotten that she’d ever felt ... uneasy ... with the higher gravity.

The inner hatch hissed open.  “Captain,” a familiar voice said.  “Welcome back.”

“Paul,” Susan said.  Commander Paul Mason was an old friend - and a co-conspirator when she’d plotted her contingency plans.  “Congratulations on your promotion.”

“Congratulations on yours,” Mason said.  He saluted, smartly.  “We only got the word a couple of hours ago.  I’m afraid we haven’t quite dusted everywhere yet.”

“I’m sure the finishing touches can wait an hour or two,” Susan said.  She felt an odd lump in her throat as she surveyed her crew.  “I hope ... I hope matters were not too hard on any of you.”

“You took all the blame, it seems,” Major Christopher Andreas said.  The Marine CO leaned forward to shake her hand.  “It didn't stop General Ramón from bawling me out, Captain, but I think most of us were in the clear.”

Mason cleared his throat.  “This is Lieutenant-Commander Jean Granger,” he said, introducing a redheaded woman.  “She’s been assigned as our tactical officer.”

“Captain,” Jean Granger said.  “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you,” Susan said.  She supposed that not all of her former crew could be bumped up a rank or two, although she’d expected Lieutenant David Reed to get the tactical slot.  But then, the Admiralty would probably want someone in place who hadn't been contaminated by any ... contingency planning.  “I’ll speak to you later, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, Captain,” Jean said.  Very few officers would mind talking to their commanding officer - and if they did, they should know to hide it.  “I also have a tactical brief from the Admiralty for your attention.”

Susan nodded, quietly making a mental note to ensure she spoke to Jean within the day.  “I thank you all for this,” she said, raising her voice to address her officers.  “It’s very good to be back.  And I would like to invite you all for dinner tonight, at 1900.  We have much to discuss.”

She paused.  “Commander Mason, remain behind,” she ordered.  “The rest of you, dismissed.”

“We cleared Captain Blake’s gear out of his cabin,” Mason told her, quietly.  “It’s open for you now, if you wish it.”

“Good,” Susan said.  She’d left his cabin alone after she’d assumed command - it had been as good a place as any to put him - but now it was hers.  “You can come with me.  I imagine we have a great deal to discuss.”

She kept her face expressionless as she strode through the corridors, silently noting the ongoing work to prepare the battleship for war.  Crewmen - many of them unfamiliar - were unpacking boxes, installing components and checking and rechecking their work.  A handful of her junior officers snapped to attention as she passed, then relaxed as she strode on to her cabin.  It wouldn't be long before word got around the ship, if it hadn’t already.  Captain Onarina had returned.

“Well,” she said, once they had entered the bare cabin.  Someone had put a bottle of whiskey on the captain’s table, along with a pair of glasses, but there was nothing else in the compartment.  “How was it for you?”

“They asked a great many questions,” Mason said.  He relaxed as soon as the hatch had hissed closed.  “And I answered them to the best of my ability.  There was a week in pokey and then they sent me back to the ship with a promotion and orders to get her ready for combat as soon as possible.”

“That’s good,” Susan said.  It was hard not to feel envy, but she had been the one who had worked hard to ensure she took most of the blame.  Her subordinates could claim they’d followed orders, although she had no idea how well that would have stood up in a court martial hearing.  “Have you heard anything else?”

“Your father sent me a number of emails, which I have strict orders to pass on to you at the most convenient moment,” Mason told her.  “He appears to believe we’re lovers.”

Susan would have blushed, if her skin had allowed it.  Mason and she had been barrack mates, back at the academy.  She couldn't have been his lover, not when it would have landed them both in hot water.  And besides, it would have felt like kissing her brother.

“I’ll v-mail him tonight,” Susan said.  “Or perhaps we can have a real conversation.”

“You should be able to,” Mason said.  He reached for the bottle and poured them both a generous dollop of alcohol.  “You are the Captain, Captain.”

He sobered.  “I think he was trying to round up political support,” he added.  “You’d probably be better emailing him now, before he does something foolish.”

Susan winced.  Her father was a stubborn old man - hell, he wasn’t really that old.  He’d been strict with her, pointing out that he expected her to excel at everything she did, but he'd also fought hard for her.  She had a feeling she might have been expelled from Hanover Towers if her father hadn't driven up to the school to argue her case personally with the headmistress, citing chapter and verse to make sure her suspension couldn't become an expulsion.  The thought of the conversation they’d had afterwards made her cringe, but she’d never doubted her father was on her side.  He’d proved it too many times.

“I will,” she said.  She took a sip of the whiskey as she sat down, silently promising herself that she’d get some more comfortable furniture moved into the suite before they left the spacedock.  “How is the ship?”

A shadow crossed Mason’s face.  Susan couldn't help feeling a flicker of guilt.  She would have hated it if a senior officer had come in and taken command, after she’d spent days repairing the damage and preparing the ship for war.  Mason was a friend, but he would have been more than human if he hadn’t felt some resentment.  Yesterday, he’d been commanding officer in all but name; now, he was nothing more than her XO.

“Most of the major damage has been repaired,” Mason said.  He stared down into his glass as he spoke.  “We’ve altered the control links to the turrets, ensuring we cannot be cut off from them if - when - we go back into battle.  And we’ve hardened the armour and added additional plating in places, as well as a number of extra point defence weapons.  I dare say we should be able to give the aliens quite a surprise in our next encounter.”

Susan nodded.  “And the bad news?”

“Two-thirds of the crew were rotated out during the first week,” Mason said.  He sounded pissed.  She didn't blame him.  “The CO who got dumped in your chair while we were being interrogated ... he didn't kick up a fuss when the Admiralty went looking for trained and experienced personnel.  It took me a week of arguing, pleading and kissing several buttocks before they dispatched replacement crew - and, even now, we’re understrength.”

“Fuck,” Susan said.  

“Quite,” Mason agreed.  “Thankfully, we haven’t had any disciplinary problems so far - nothing the senior chiefs couldn't handle, in any case.  But we’ve lost nearly all of our middies - Georgina Fitzwilliam is the only one who stayed with us, although heaven alone knows why.”

“She’s the First Space Lord’s niece,” Susan recalled.  “I imagine he wouldn't want to pull her out when it might make him look bad.”

“Perhaps, Captain,” Mason said.  “In any case, she’s been given leave - along with half of the experienced crew - and should be returning to us in the next two days ...”

Susan blinked.  “We’re short on crew and you gave them leave?”

Mason met her eyes, evenly.  “They were pushed right to the limits, Captain,” he said.  “The number of mistakes caused by tiredness was rising sharply.  I made the call to give them some leave, which they desperately needed.”

“And it was your call to make,” Susan conceded.  “Do we have any other problems?”

“The Admiralty wants us at the RV point within the week,” Mason said.  “I suspect they might want us to be there, ready or not.  There was a ... finality about the message.”

“As long as we don’t run off with the shipyard workers,” Susan said.  “That might get us in some trouble.”

She smiled in genuine amusement.  Stellar Star had done that, but Stellar Star had an overflowing shipsuit and a friendly scriptwriter.  She didn't want to think about what the Admiralty would say if she kidnapped a few dozen shipyard workers.  They’d probably shoot her first and worry about the charges later.

“Yeah,” Mason agreed.  “It would probably get us into very deep shit.”

He tossed back his drink, then placed the glass on the table.  “I think we can make it, Captain, but we’re going to be pressed for crew.  I’ve got an application in for additional crewmen, yet ... from what I’m hearing through the grapevine, there aren't many crewmen left who can be diverted to Vanguard.  Right now, the Admiralty is hard-pressed to keep up with demand.  I suspect that reservists are being mobilised, but ... well it will be weeks before they’re ready to take up positions and we’ll be gone well before then.  The only good news is that we should have an almost complete roster of midshipmen, when they actually arrive, but most of them are either green or have very limited experience.”

“They’ll have to be tossed in at the deep end,” Susan said.  She sighed.  There was no shortage of ways for greenie midshipmen to screw up and, without proper supervision, there was a good chance that one of those ways would be disastrous.  “Make sure you keep a close eye on them - ask Lieutenant Fraser to do the same.”

“The First Middy won’t like that,” Mason reminded her.  “She’s supposed to be supreme within the wardroom.”

“It will just have to be endured,” Susan said, crossly.  “And you can make that point to her, if necessary.

She ran her hand through her dark hair, knowing it wouldn't be easy.  Traditionally, what happened in Middy Country stayed in Middy Country, at least unless it got far out of hand.  If the First Middy couldn't keep control - or appeared to be leaning too much on her superior officers - it could cost her any chance of promotion.  It was a delicate balancing act and too many promising young officers had fallen off.

“As you wish, Captain,” Mason said.  He pulled a small datapad from his belt.  “As you can see” - he passed the datapad to Susan - “we are within five days of being ready to depart.  I think we could leave now, if necessary, but I would prefer to avoid combat in that case.  And in any case, we’re going to have a great deal of work to do while we’re in transit.”

“Joy,” Susan said.  She wanted to get back out into deep space, where she didn't have to worry about desk-bound officers peering over her shoulder, but if any problems developed it would be better to handle them near a shipyard.  “Did you run a full shakedown test?”

“Levels one and two,” Mason said.  “I decided to leave the level three test for a couple more days.  We should have everything in place to make it successful by then.”

“Very good,” Susan said.  “And we’ll have three days to fix anything that goes badly wrong.”

She glanced at the datapad, running her eye down the list of neat little reports.  Her ship wasn't quite ready to depart, but she was close enough.  The storage compartments were being filled with spare parts and additional ammunition, as well as ...

“Paul,” she said, holding out the datapad.  “What’s this?”

“Supplies for a portable biological research chamber,” Mason said.  He didn't seem surprised that she’d noticed it.  “Or, put a little more bluntly, a prison cell for any alien captives.”

Susan stared at him.  “On my ship?”

“In theory, the research team - which is headed by Prince Henry, by the way - will be transferring to a support ship once we reach the front,” Mason told her.  “In practice, we may be keeping them for longer.”

“Wonderful,” Susan said.  She had nothing against Prince Henry - he’d insisted he was nothing more than an Ambassador - but she didn't like the idea of untrained civilians on her ship.  “What happened to the researchers from Tadpole Prime?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said.  “But they won’t be coming with us.”

Susan rubbed her forehead.  “Are there any more surprises?”

“Apparently, there will be a formal briefing once we reach the RV point,” Mason said.  “I imagine they’re saving the nasty surprises until then.”

“Quite,” Susan agreed.  “It is the sort of thing they tend to do.”

She scanned the rest of the datapad, then looked back at him.  “I’m going to call my father, if we’re close enough for a direct conversation,” she said.  “And then I’ll meet you on the bridge for the formal assumption of command.  And then we will go over the ship in cynical detail.”

Mason nodded.  “Make sure your father knows you’re safe,” he said.  “I was quite worried he’d start pressuring his MP.”

Susan sighed.  Maybe he had started pressuring his local MP.  No one took democracy - and freedom - more seriously than a man who had fought and bled to preserve it.  She had no idea just what had happened, over the last month; she doubted she would ever know.  But at least it had worked in her favour.  She had command of a warship, her actions had been officially approved ... as far as anyone outside the charmed circle knew, she’d done nothing even remotely wrong.  But it would remain in her file for the rest of her life.

“I’ll ask him,” she said, reluctantly.  “I’ll see you on the bridge.”

Mason nodded and left the compartment, the hatch hissing closed behind her.  Susan sighed and tapped her console, requesting a direct link to the planetary surface.  There was a good chance she wouldn’t get it - the military communications network was presumably very busy - but it was worth a try.  And luck was with her.  Five minutes later, her father’s face appeared in the terminal.  He looked older than she recalled, his face carved with new lines that worried her.  He’d clearly been very worried about her.

“Father,” she said, feeling another lump in her throat.  “I’m fine.”

“Susan,” her father said, gruffly.  “What happened?”

“It’s a long story,” she said, tapping her ears to indicate that they might be overheard.  If the Admiralty had doubts about her, they might just be listening to the call.  “But I’m fine now.”

Her father looked at her for a long moment - the same look, she realised with a shock, he’d given her when she’d asked his blessing to apply to the Academy.  He'd known she was an adult, he'd known she was responsible ... and yet, she was still his little girl.

“I hope you’re right,” he said, finally.  He trusted her, she knew.  He might have his doubts - and his fears for her - but he trusted her.  “Now, who’s been feeding you and why haven’t they done a good job of it?”

Susan sighed and settled in for the long haul.

Chapter Five

Mars, Midshipwoman Georgina Fitzwilliam thought, was meant to be red.

And it was red, she knew, outside the dome.  Outside the areas that had been steadily - and ruthlessly - terraformed into a new home for the human race.  There were no Martians to object, no native life to be displaced ... the humans who might have objected, once upon a time, had bowed to the harsh truth that the human race had only one true homeworld in the entire galaxy.  And even after the tramlines had been discovered, the terraforming project had continued, combining genetically-engineered plants with asteroid water and a giant orbital mirror to heat the planet.  

And there are even humans who are adapted to live on the surface, she thought, as she stared up at the dome.  They’re the real natives now.

She smiled to herself as the fake sunlight beat down on her nude body.  It couldn't pass for the Maldives, where she'd spent a couple of happy summers during vacation from school, but it was close enough.  Water - warm water - washed against a sandy beach, framed by palm trees and illuminated by sunlamps bright enough to give her a tan.  It looked like a piece of heaven, removed from its rightful place and embedded in the red dust of Mars.  And, best of all, no one knew who she was.  To the resort staff, she was just another midshipwomen splurging on a fancy holiday before returning to her ship.

And we will have to go back soon, she thought, as she sat upright.  We can’t stay here forever.

The thought made her scowl as she peered out over the fake ocean.  A couple of young men were swimming through the water, both ignoring her presence.  Mars, surprisingly, had a more hedonistic population than Earth, although perhaps that was no surprise.  The early colonists had all been nationalistic, part of a rush to claim as much of the planetary surface as possible, but the later colonies had a more independent bent.  And several of them were even giant experiments in alternate living.  She’d even heard that one of them was a solely nudist colony.  Visitors left their clothes - and their dignity - at the airlock.  She’d been tempted to visit, but apparently they were very careful about just who they allowed through the doors.

“George,” a voice called.  She turned, just in time to see Peter Barton striding towards her, carrying a pair of fancy drinks.  The resort couldn't match the aristocratic parties she’d been forced to attend - some of her elder relatives preferred to get drunk as quickly as possible, just to make the time go swiftly - but at least it was trying.  “They’re trying to up the price again.”

“I’m not surprised,” George said.  She looked him up and down, openly admiring his unclad body.  Peter Barton couldn't match an aristocratic fop for sheer handsomeness - they normally had a little plastic surgery when they turned eighteen - but there was a crudeness about his muscular body that she found attractive.  “You did tell them we had a deal?”

“They’re probably regretting it now,” Barton said.  He passed her the drink, then sat down next to her.  “I’m sure they expected more from their heroes.”

George shrugged.  She’d heard - through the grapevine - that she’d been marked down for a medal, along with several of the other officers and crew on Vanguard, but she hadn’t heard anything else before she’d joined Barton for a joint leave.  The Admiralty wasn't normally so slow about recognising bravery and awarding medals, according to her uncle.  She was tempted to write to him and ask what had happened, but she knew better.  Her uncle would not be pleased and her father would be furious.

Either be the best officer you can be, she told herself as she sipped her drink, or resign yourself to a lifetime trapped in a gilded cage.

“They probably thought we could be talked out of requesting privacy,” she said, finally.  “I’m not going to budge on that, Peter.”

“Me neither,” Barton agreed.  “They’ll probably hit us with another bill as soon as we try to check out.”

George shrugged.  She had an expense account - if she wished to use it - with a credit limit that would allow her to buy a new shuttlecraft, if she didn't mind her family looking over her shoulder.  Her naval account was separate, private; they wouldn't know what she chose to spend her wages on.  Or so she hoped.  Naval accounts were supposed to be secure, at least without a court order, but she doubted that an accountant would deny the First Space Lord a glimpse at his niece’s accounts, if he thought to ask.

“We paid what they demanded in advance,” she reminded him, dryly.  “They don't have a right to anything else.”

She glanced at him, watching as his gaze wandered over the ocean.  He wasn't what her family wanted for her, not when he was just a Gunnery Officer.  And as much as she’d enjoyed what they’d been doing together over the past few days, she knew better than to think they had anything permanent.  Their affair would be a minor scandal, on Mars, but on Vanguard it would be a gross breach of regulations.  She knew, all too well, just what her uncle would have to say about it, if they were caught in a privacy tube.  She’d be lucky if she was allowed to resign without a major fuss.

The swimmers were making their way back to their encampment, followed by a pair of equally nude women.  George wondered, idly, if they were their lovers or merely resort staff, eager to make sure their guests were catered to in every way.  She hadn't been able to believe the number of options on the menu, even if they were all technically legal on Mars.  But then, given the amount of money visitors splashed around, she could understand why the staff went out of their way to please.  A single bad report could be disastrous.

She watched as the young men scrambled out of the water, feeling oddly unconcerned about their nakedness - or hers.  Nudity was nothing special, she supposed, when everyone was nude.  Even the staff wore nothing but their birthday suits.  The two girls followed the men out of the water, their bodies glistening under the sunlight.  They were so perfect that she couldn't help thinking that they too had had a little plastic surgery.  And their contracts presumably prevented them from putting on weight.

“There’re no distractions here,” Barton said, quietly.  “No worries, no concerns ...”

“Until the money runs out,” George said.  She scowled.  Just because she had a trust fund didn't mean she had to abuse it.  “And we go back to the ship.”

She leaned back, feeling the sunlight grow hotter.  She’d been worked to the bone, along with the other midshipmen, over the last three weeks.  And then they’d been reassigned, leaving her as the only middy.  It had been nice to have Middy Country to herself for a week, but there had been something unnatural about sleeping on her own.  And yet, if she’d mentioned that to anyone, they would have called for the men in white coats to take her away.  Privacy and solitude were so rare for midshipmen that every last fragment of them was precious.

“You’re thinking,” Barton accused, mischievously.  “I can tell.”

“I’m surprised you can recognise the symptoms,” George said.  “Do you actually do any thinking at all.”

“I let my little head do all the thinking for me,” Barton said.  He sat upright, then brought his lips to hers for a long kiss.  “And right now, there’s nothing else to do.”

George smiled as she opened her legs, allowing him to slip gently into her.  She hadn't been a virgin when she’d boarded Vanguard - she hoped, desperately, that her family didn't know anything about her last few days at Hanover Towers - but Barton had been her first serious partner.  The things he did to her made her body purr, even though she knew there could never be anything permanent between them.  She leaned back as he thrust deeper, gasping as his hands played over her breasts.  And then she was lost in the sensation ...

Afterwards, they showered under the waterfall before walking along the beach to the cafe, holding hands.  A handful of other couples were sitting there, as naked as the two of them; they took a seat and ordered dinner, then held hands as they waited.  The food was very good, she’d discovered, even though much of the meat was vat-grown rather than imported from Earth.  But then, importing real steak and ribs from Earth would have driven the price up into low orbit.

The waiter returned, carrying a tray of steak and mashed potatoes in one hand and a datapad in the other.  “Messages have arrived for both of you,” he said.  “They’re both marked low priority.”

George exchanged a glance with Barton.  Messages?  Messages from whom?  Her family didn't know where she was, as far as she knew.  She took the datapad and tapped the scanner, allowing it to read the naval ID chip implanted in her palm.  Moments later, the message unlocked itself.  She read it quickly and scowled.

“They want me back at the ship a day early,” she said.  It wasn't really a surprise - she’d been lucky to get five solid days of off-ship leave approved - but it was annoying.  She'd hoped for another night together.  “And you too, I guess.”

Barton took the datapad and read his message.  “A very good guess,” he said.  “I’m expected to report to my new department head tomorrow morning.”

George sighed as she took back the datapad and checked the travel schedules.  The resort didn't have a proper airport or spaceport and it wasn't on the high-speed monorail network that linked the various settlements together.  They’d have to get a tripod, paying through the nose for passage to the nearest spaceport.  And they’d have to get a shuttle from there to L4.

“We’re going to be pushing it,” she said.  There was no way the Royal Navy would devote an interplanetary shuttle to a very junior officer and a crewman, no matter who she happened to have for relatives.  “We’ll have to leave in less than a couple of hours if we want to make it there for the deadline.”

“Then we need to be out of here in one,” Barton said.  He cut up his steak, then started to chew it piece by piece.  “Eat up quickly, George.  There’ll be a delay at the shuttleport or my name’s not Peter Barton.”

“You’ll be renamed Mud if you’re wrong,” George said, warningly.  “I don’t want to get back too early.”

She shook her head.  He was right.  She knew he was right.  Getting back to the ship early would get them commended for their devotion for duty, getting back to the ship late would earn them both shit duties for the rest of the week.  And if Vanguard had to leave without them ... they might as well resign before their careers were blown out of the water.  A soldier might just be able to catch up with his unit, at his own expense, but even her expense account wouldn't be enough to hire an interstellar starship to follow the battleship.

They ate their food quickly, then hurried back to their suite to dress and pack up their bags before departure.  It felt odd to wear clothes again, but George rather doubted she’d be allowed to walk about naked on a battleship.  She’d slept in her underwear during normal operations and fully dressed during the long crawl home, knowing that they might have to snap awake and run to their duty stations at any moment.  She took one last look at the huge room - the bed had been more than large enough for some of their more exotic experiments - and then scooped up her knapsack and headed for the door.  Barton followed her, shaking his head slowly.  To him, she realised dully, the four nights had to have been paradise.

And they were pretty good for me too, she thought, as they hurried down to the airlock.  The tripod was already there, waiting for them.  It’s almost a shame our time here has to end.

“Thank you for your stay,” the manager said.  He was an oily little man who somehow gave the impression of wearing a suit and tie, even though he was as naked as his staff.  “The remainder of your bill will be forwarded to you.”

George bit down on the response that came to mind.  Most - perhaps all - of his normal clientele wouldn't notice a few tens of thousands of pounds going missing, one way or the other.  They’d pay the bill without thinking about it.  But she knew better than to waste her money paying bills she didn't have to pay.  She’d take a good look at the bill, when it arrived, just to make sure they didn’t have a legitimate claim.  And then she’d ignore it, secure in the knowledge they wouldn't try to force her to pay.

“Thank you,” she said, instead.  “We enjoyed our stay.”

The interior of the tripod was nothing more than a small canopy, rather like an oversized starfighter.  It lurched to life as soon as the airlock was sealed, disconnecting from the resort and heading across the dusty red landscape.  George sat on one of the seats and stared out of the canopy, leaning against Barton as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder.  There were patches of Red Weed - genetically-engineered plants designed to boost the oxygen levels in the air - everywhere, but otherwise there were few signs of the terraforming effort.  Mars still looked remorselessly alien.

“There are people engineered to live outside the domes,” she mused, as the tripod picked up speed, hurrying across the red landscape with a rollicking gait that reminded her of her first pony.  “What will happen to them as the oxygen levels rise towards Earth-norm?”

“They’re supposed to be engineered to survive on Earth,” Barton said.  “But I don’t know how well it will work in practice when the oxygen levels get higher.”

George leaned into his arm and forced herself to relax, watching a pair of shuttles screaming through the air and heading towards the spaceport.  They couldn't do anything intimate as soon as they reached their destination, not when there would be hundreds of other naval personnel around.  The thought hurt, more than she cared to admit, but it wasn't as if they were going anywhere anyway.  They had just set out to have fun in a patch of unreality ...

... And now they were returning to the real world.

“Peter,” she said, slowly.  “We have to talk.”

She sensed his body stiffen and deliberately pulled away, knowing she didn't dare push any closer.  “What we did - what we did here - it has to stay here.”

Barton met her eyes as she turned to look at him.  “Because you’re an officer and I’m not.”

He didn't sound accusing.  George couldn't help thinking that that didn't make her feel any better.  She would almost have preferred to have him shouting at her.

“Yes,” she said.  She remembered his touch on her - in her - and flushed.  No one would have cared, if they’d been civilians, but they weren't civilians.  “It will destroy our careers if anyone finds out about it.”

“And that Fraser may use it against you,” Barton said.  “He doesn't like you, does he?”

George shrugged.  Fraser - formerly the First Middy - and she had been getting on a great deal better since his promotion, but he was still supervising her career.  She wasn't sure what he got out of it, unless it was an unspoken apology for the way he’d treated her when she’d joined the crew, yet she found it hard to care.  Fraser might be a prickly asshole, but much of what he said was good advice.

“It doesn't matter,” she said.  “What does matter is that everything we did together has to remain strictly between ourselves.”

“I do understand,” Barton said.  He rose slowly and moved backwards, letting go of her completely.  “And if you want to share the next shore leave ...”

“Assuming we survive the coming deployment,” George said.  She hadn't heard anything, but it didn't take a genius to work out that the Royal Navy was preparing for war.  “If we do, I would be honoured to share it with you.”

Barton leaned forward and gave her a quick kiss, then made a show of settling down at the other side of the cab.  George turned to stare out over the landscape, blinking away tears she knew she shouldn't be crying.  They didn't have anything, they couldn't have anything ... they were just two adults, enjoying each other’s company.  But it still hurt.

They said nothing as they arrived at the spaceport and boarded a shuttle back to the L4 shipyard.  George took advantage of the long flight to take a nap, then catch up with her email.  There was almost nothing important, save for a long message from one of her old academy chums telling her that he’d been assigned to HMS Impervious, a Theodore Smith-class fleet carrier and that he’d be shipping out in two days.  George wondered, absently, if that made him a lucky bastard or not.  The year of seniority he’d been granted for his role in the early engagements - along with herself and a number of other midshipmen - gave him a reasonable chance of being First Middy.

But he’ll be on a brand new ship, she thought.  The XO might have other ideas.

She shook her head, then glanced at her wristcom.  They’d be back on Vanguard within three hours ...

... And she just couldn't wait to be home.

Chapter Six

“Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam,” a familiar voice said.  “Welcome back.”

George stiffened, then hastily saluted as she saw Lieutenant Charles Fraser standing by the airlock, looking grim.  He was a big bruiser of a man - if anything, he was bigger than she remembered - wearing a lieutenant’s uniform like he was born to it.  She couldn't believe she’d challenged him to a fight, or that he hadn't smashed her into a bloody mess.  He returned her salute, then motioned for her to follow him down the passageway.  She saw his face twist in disapproval as he saw Barton making his way out of the shuttle and sighed inwardly.  Fraser might not be out to ruin her - not any longer - but he had good reason to be concerned.

He said nothing until they reached his cabin, a small space that was undoubtedly his.  George couldn't resist looking around, even though she knew she should stay at attention until he released her.  The bulkheads were covered with certificates - martial arts, squadron fighting awards - and a large photograph of a younger Fraser with two people she assumed were his parents.  Fraser had been more accomplished than she’d known, she realised.  He’d definitely gone easy on her during their bout.

“You were with him,” he said, flatly.  “Weren't you?”

George was tempted to lie, but there was no point.  “Yes, sir.”

“I suggest that you make sure that you have nothing to do with him that isn’t strictly professional,” Fraser said.  His tone made it clear that it was an order.  “Your career could wind up in the crapper if someone puts two and two together.”

“Yes, sir,” George said.  She considered, briefly, pointing out that Fraser was no longer First Middy, then abandoned the suicidal thought.  “I have already made it clear to him.”

“That’s good to hear,” Fraser grunted.  He sat down on the bunk and waved her to the sole chair.  “Stand at ease, Middy, and sit down.”

“Yes, sir,” George said.  She didn't relax.  Fraser and she might have come to an understanding, but it was hard to relax around him.  “You have a very nice cabin.”

Fraser’s lips twisted.  “And you have turned into a liar,” he said.  “And not a very good liar at that.”

George shrugged.  Fraser’s cabin would have vanished without trace on her father’s estate, but compared to the middy bunkroom it was paradise incarnate.  Fraser actually had some privacy!  No one who’d shared a wardroom with eight or so sweaty midshipmen would turn up his nose at such a cabin, regardless of its size.  The private washroom alone was sheer heaven.  And she would have been surprised if he didn't get a bigger water ration as a lieutenant.

“Still, we’re not here to discuss your fragile grip on the truth,” Fraser added.  “I have been ... asked ... to involve myself in supervising the midshipmen, reporting directly to the XO.  This is, as you can imagine, an awkward situation.”

“Oh,” George said.  “That’s ... bad.”

She felt a flicker of sympathy, both for him and the new First Middy.  It was an awkward situation.  Technically, she’d been the last First Middy ... although, given that there hadn't been any other midshipmen, the title had been a little pointless.  But the First Middy was supposed to have a free hand in the wardroom.  His predecessor was certainly not supposed to be looking over his shoulder.

“One trusts it can be handled without aggro,” Fraser added, dryly.  “I don’t think the XO will be very pleased if he has to involve himself in the affairs of the wardroom.”

“No, sir,” George said, wondering why he was talking to her.  She was his only subordinate officer, arguably, but that wouldn't last.  And they’d never been close friends before his promotion.  “It would be very bad for us.”

“Yeah,” Fraser agreed.  His lip twisted, sourly.  “Particularly as you will be First Middy.”

George blinked.  “I am?  I mean ... I will be?”

“Yes,” Fraser said.  He picked a datapad from his desk and passed it to her.  “Manpower, as you are perfectly aware, is quite limited.  We’re receiving four midshipmen: two transferring from other ships, two being shipped directly from the Academy.   And, thanks to the year’s seniority you were given, you are the senior midshipman.”

He smiled.  “Congratulations, First Middy.”

George thought rapidly.  She wasn't very senior at all - she’d had about seven months as a midshipman - but her seniority had been boosted.  And she was the sole experienced midshipman left on Vanguard, the only one who was already familiar with the ship and her crew.  Still ... nineteen months, give or take a few days.  There were midshipmen who had - should have had - two or three years on her before their careers started to stagnate.  She couldn't help thinking that there was trouble ahead.

“You’re sure about this?”  She asked.  “Really?”

“I do know how to count the years,” Fraser said, dryly.  “And you’re meant to call me sir when you’re speaking to me.”

George coloured.  “Sorry, sir.”

“That’s better,” Fraser said.  He cleared his throat.  “Midshipman Simon Potter is only a couple of days short of being First Middy himself, so you should probably keep an eye on him.  The last thing you need is to be beached for a week with an ambitious toad in the background.  His record is suspiciously blank, which worries me.  Chances are his commander let him go without a fight for reasons that were never written down.”

“I see,” George said.  “How do you know that, sir?”

“Long experience,” Fraser said.  “Potter is, in theory, on the fast-track to promotion.  But if his CO let him go, there’s something wrong with him that was never written into his file.”

George scowled.  There were files - and subsections of files - that neither she nor Fraser could access.  If something had been written down there, she wouldn't be able to see it, unless she convinced a senior officer to allow her access.  And merely making the request would be enough to get her in trouble, unless she came up with a very convincing reason.

“Maybe he has a powerful family, sir,” she mused.  “Does he?”

“Not as far as I can tell,” Fraser said.  “But you’d know more about that than I would.”

“Yes, sir,” George said.  He was right.  The world of the aristocracy was larger than most people imagined, but she knew - either personally or by reputation - everyone in the same age bracket as herself.  She’d never heard of a Simon Potter.  “It could be a false name, I suppose.”

“Perhaps,” Fraser said.  He gave her a nasty, sharp-edged smile.  “But he’s your problem now, First Middy.”

George felt her scowl deepen.  She could ask for advice, if she wished, but it would be taken as a sign of weakness.  Fraser might not report her to the XO - she had no idea how he’d react - yet she knew it would be held against her.  And, oddly, she found that she wanted his respect.  Winning him over would be a coup in its own right.

“The other experienced midshipman - midshipwoman - is Paula Spurgeon,” Fraser explained, after a long moment.  “Her file is rather interesting, with just enough written down to convince me that there’s something else hidden in the classified sections.  From what I have been able to glean from the open sections, she was beached for two years after an ... incident ... on HMS Queen Elizabeth.  I’m honestly surprised she didn't resign, given that much of a beaching.  Her chances of promotion have to be non-existent.”

“And it would take years to rebuild her seniority, sir,” George mused.  She couldn’t help wondering if Fraser felt any sympathy for the older woman.  “She might live and die a midshipwoman.”

“Probably,” Fraser agreed.  “You should keep an eye on her too.  She might well be bitter and resentful - and we have no idea what actually happened on Queen Liz.  It’s possible she might have had an illegitimate affair” - he gave George a sharp look - “or it could be something a great deal more serious.”

“Perhaps she rammed an asteroid, sir,” George said.  Fraser’s comments were hitting a little too close to home.  “Or maybe she forgot to wear her dress uniform when the admiral was inspecting the ship.”

“Ramming an asteroid would be a remarkable feat,” Fraser pointed out, rather dryly.  “And I can't see them letting her stay in the navy afterwards, even if she avoided court martial.”

He cleared his throat.  “The two newcomers are Clayton Henderson and Felicity Wheeler,” he added.  “Unsurprisingly, there’s very little in their files; they passed through the Academy without attracting many comments, positive or negative, from their tutors.  Henderson had quite a low ranking in his senior years, but someone has to be on the lower end of the scale.”

George grimaced.  If she was ever put in command of the Academy, she intended to make sure that the tutors didn’t grade on a curve.  Fraser was right.  Someone had to be at the lower end of the scale - and that person might be heads and shoulders ahead of a civilian who couldn't pass the tests necessary to gain admittance to the Academy.  A person smarter than her, during a particularly bad year, might gain a reputation for stupidity that was thoroughly undeserved.

“You said they didn't have many comments, sir,” she mused.  “What did they say?”

“Nothing of great interest,” Fraser said.  “They would have passed their evaluations or they would never have been permitted to graduate, but ...”

He shrugged.  “They’re due to board tomorrow, whereupon you will greet them to the ship and show them around,” he added.  “And, as First Middy, you get the honour of working out the timetables.  I’m afraid they’ll have to hit the deck running.”

George took the datapad, forcing herself to think.  The midshipmen would have to be assigned to the different departments, then rotated around ... they’d have to get their certifications before they could be trusted to take watch duty or command a small detachment ... it was going to be a major headache.  She didn't know how Fraser had done it, but she could guess.  He'd only had to deal with one or two newcomers at a time, relying on the other midshipmen to handle themselves without constant supervision.  She had four newcomers ...

... And their conduct would reflect upon her.

“Give them a day to orientate themselves,” Fraser advised, as she began to work.  “And then assign them to the departments most in need of extra manpower.”

He frowned.  “I’d check with tactical and helm, if I were you,” he added.  “They both need additional staff, but they might not have time to train up complete newcomers.  Potter and Spurgeon both have excellent tactical ratings, so they might be assigned there without causing any problems that will make you look bad.”

“Thanks, sir,” George said, sourly.

Fraser gave her a brilliant smile.  “You’re welcome.”

George worked her way through the timetable, then looked up at him.  “Do you have any other words of advice?”

“Two,” Fraser said.  “First, remember that you are in charge,  You’re not their friend, you’re not their comrade, you’re not their den mother.  You’re the First Middy and you’re expected to act as though you are in charge.  A hint of weakness at the wrong time and the knives will come out.”

“You make it sound as though they are animals, sir,” George protested.

Fraser lifted his eyebrows.  “And you never thought I was an animal?”

George felt her cheeks heat, but said nothing.

“You know as well as I do that competition for promotion is intense,” Fraser added, after a long moment.  “And you do not have the advantage of spending two years in uniform, gaining experience before you take on true responsibility.  Two of your subordinates are well-positioned to take advantage of any problems you have, while the other two are unlikely to see you as a superior officer.  You must take control right from the start and if that means acting like a bitch, you act like a bitch.”

“Yes, sir,” George said.  “And the second piece of advice?”

“Be tough, be firm ... but also be fair,” Fraser said.  “Yes, you will have to chew them out when they screw up - and they will.  But you will also have to realise that not every screw-up is the result of malice or stupidity.  You don’t need them to like you, let alone to love you, but you do need them to trust you.  They won’t come to you with their problems if they feel they cannot trust you to actually listen to them.”

He paused.  “And one other piece of advice?”

George nodded, wordlessly.

“Two of them are young women, one a couple of years older than you, the other a year younger,” Fraser noted.  “Don’t allow them to suck you into a female clique.  You are their superior officer and you cannot run the risk of allowing cliques to form, certainly not along those lines.  It would be disastrous.”

“Yes, sir,” George said.

Fraser took a breath.  “If you need advice, you can come to me,” he said.  “I also expect you to find time to continue your physical training with me.  Let me know when you are available.”

George nodded.  Fraser was a slave-driver, but he knew his stuff.  And she’d grown under his tuition.  She'd never be a martial artist, not like him, but she knew enough to take care of herself.  And her shooting was getting much - much  - better.

You’re still getting outpointed by the marines, her thoughts reminded her.  Don’t get cocky.

She pushed the thought aside as Fraser dismissed her, then made her way back to Middy Country.  It felt eerily empty, as if she was the only person on the ship; the lockers had been emptied and the beds had been stripped, leaving her the only occupant.  A large care package, addressed to her, sat on the deck.  She sighed, recognising the return address.  Her sister’s heart was in the right place, but she had no idea just what it was like to serve on a warship - or just how embarrassing it had been to receive a piece of naughty underwear that wouldn't have been out of place in a brothel.  None of the others had ever let her forget it.

I have to write to Anne, she reminded herself as she tore open the box.  Someone must have had a word with her - probably their uncle - because she’d crammed the box with chocolate bars, rather than anything more awkward.  There was still rather more of it than she would have preferred, she decided, but it was certainly more practical.  I’ll have to thank her.

She put a chocolate bar aside for later consumption - she could afford to eat one, she told herself - and then stowed the others in the locker.  She'd have to share them with the other middies - and she should probably give a few to Fraser and the other officers - once they got accustomed to serving on a battleship.  It would be awkward - chocolate bars were traded at two or three times market value once the ship was underway - but better than keeping the chocolate all for herself.  A piece of paper fell out of the box as she finished emptying it and dropped onto the deck.  Her sister was expressing - again - her hope that George would find a handsome man and come home.

George crumpled up the paper, feeling a flicker of angry frustration.  Anne should never have gone to that damned Swiss finishing school, not after leaving Hanover Towers.  She wasn't precisely stupid, but the finishing school was more concerned with moulding young girls into perfect little ladies instead of developing their minds.  Anne looked stunning in a long blue dress - George knew that hardly anyone considered her a true lady - but she was very good at giving the impression that she had nothing between her ears.  And there were times when George had been inclined to believe that Anne was truly stupid.  Maybe she’d bribed the tutors to give her the answers before entering the examination chambers.

She’s your sister, she reminded herself, as she checked the duty roster.  Unsurprisingly, the shipboard management program hadn't realised she’d come back from leave a day early.  She had no assigned tasks until the other midshipmen arrived, the following day.  And she’s trying to be helpful.

But she isn't being helpful, her own thoughts answered.  The chocolate was a more practical gift than underwear, but it would still cause her problems.  And all she’s doing is driving me mad.

She pushed the thought out of her mind and undressed, enjoying the privacy for the final time.  Thankfully, there were no water rations in spacedock; she stepped into the shower, luxuriated under the warm stream for ten minutes and then dried herself, checking her appearance in the mirror.  Her hair had grown out, a little, but she didn't need to have it hacked back to the roots just yet.  Anne would probably have a heart attack if someone had suggested chopping off her blonde locks and wearing an ill-fitting uniform.  And she would probably react badly if she knew what George had been doing with Peter Barton.  No doubt she’d be disgusted at the thought of kissing someone worth less than five hundred thousand or so a year.

Forget him, she told herself firmly.  She climbed into the bunk, feeling oddly cold and alone as she clicked off the light.  She’d grown too used to falling asleep in his arms after two or three rounds of lovemaking.  Enjoy the peace.  Tomorrow is going to be a very different day. 

Chapter Seven

“Welcome back, Your Excellency,” Captain Susan Onarina said.  “I trust you had a pleasant flight?”

“It could have been worse, Captain,” Henry said.  “And please allow me, Captain, to offer my congratulations for your promotion.  It was very well deserved.”

He studied Susan with interest as a small team of crewmen materialised from nowhere to help his staff move their equipment and supplies down to their quarters.  She was darker than he remembered, although there was an odd pallor to her skin that probably came with too little sleep - and a great deal of stress.  Her dark hair was tied up in a bun - he was mildly surprised she hadn't cut it short, unlike many other crewmen - and she wore her uniform very well.  Thankfully, she'd honoured his request for a complete lack of actual ceremony.

“Thank you,” Susan said.  She sounded tired too.  According to the briefing notes, she’d only been back on her ship for two days.  “If you would care to accompany me to my cabin, Your Excellency ...”

Henry nodded and followed her, wondering if she knew he’d gone to bat for her.  The First Space Lord was unlikely to mention it to anyone, but she didn't have many other friends in high places.  Captain Blake’s resignation might have taken the wind out of her enemies’ sails, yet they were still formidable - and very well connected.  Henry just hoped she could build up a reputation - and contacts of her own to offset the balance - before they rallied and found another way to harm her career.  And he was sure she would.

There’s nothing small-minded people hate more, he thought morbidly, than having their arses saved by someone who doesn't even care to lord it over them.

“I have several datachips for you,” he said, as soon as they were in her cabin.  She’d hung a portrait of a smiling couple - a black man and a white woman - on one of the bulkheads, but the remainder of the compartment was remarkably bare.  Given how much expensive crap Captain Blake had somehow stuffed into his quarters, he couldn’t help finding it something of a relief.  “And the latest from the front too.”

“That’s something, at least,” Susan said.  She motioned for him to sit on the sofa as she poured them both a glass of shipboard rotgut.  Henry wondered, absently, if the choice of alcohol was a backhanded compliment or a subtle insult.  Probably the former, he decided;  Captain Susan Onarina didn't have a nasty bone in her body.  “We’re due to depart in two days.”

Henry nodded in agreement.  “My team and I will do our best to stay out of your way,” he said, as he took the glass and sniffed it carefully.  Shipboard rotgut ranged from remarkably smooth to a guaranteed choking fit, if one drank hastily.  “And I trust the same will be true of the other additions.”

Susan snorted.  “We’re taking on nearly a thousand soldiers,” she said.  She sounded annoyed, although he was relieved to note she didn't sound bitter.  “And we’re having to bed them in the corridors, because we don’t have anything like enough bunks for all of them.  Do you know how many things could go wrong?”

“Yes,” Henry said.  He’d argued against it - the soldiers could have been sent on military transports - but the brass had been adamant.  Britain needed to make it clear that it was making a major commitment to the campaign, now the politicians had finally realised that the country - and the world - was at war.  “It won’t make your voyage any easier, even if things go according to plan.”

Susan gave him a droll look.  “And when have things ever gone according to plan?”

She shook her head.  “Do you have any idea where we’re even going?”

“Unity,” Henry said.  He watched her closely, wondering just how much she'd already guessed, but her dark face betrayed nothing.  “Admiral Harper is expected to take a multinational task force to reinforce the defences, with Vanguard as one of his ships.”

“At least I know him,” Susan said.  She smiled, rather sardonically.  “I would have thought he never wanted to see me again.”

“He recommended you for the Navy Cross,” Henry told her.  “Politics may impede you actually receiving it, Captain, but his citation makes impressive reading.”

He sighed, inwardly.  The First Space Lord might hope that parts of the story - or at least the embarrassing parts - could be buried, but Henry knew too much to expect the cover-up to endure indefinitely.  The story was really too good to be left untold.  Thankfully, very few people knew the full story - and most of them had been warned to keep their mouths shut - but rumours were already leaking out.  He could only hope that no one would put the full story together until Vanguard was already on her way to Unity.

Susan smiled for the first time since he’d boarded her ship.  “So he doesn't bear a grudge?”

“He’d have some problems explaining to his superiors why he did, given that you saved the fleet,” Henry reminded her.  “And he’s honest enough to admit that you did save the fleet.”

“That’s good,” Susan said.  She took another sip of her drink.  “So ... what are the mission orders?”

Henry took a moment to organise his thoughts.  “Intelligence believes - everything they know is two months out of date, unfortunately - that our new enemies are going to launch a major offensive towards Unity,” he said.  “Given that they do seem to be restricted to standard tramlines, it does seem to be their best option ... assuming, of course, that they managed to capture a database from one of the disabled starships.”

He scowled at the thought.  Hundreds of analysts had gone over the recordings of the battle with a fine-toothed comb, but - in the end - none of them had been prepared to say, with complete certainty, that no databases had fallen into enemy hands.  In theory, every database was supposed to be rigged to automatically wipe itself and then self-destruct, if the ship was too badly damaged to escape the enemy, but in practice ... he knew, all too well, just how much could go wrong.  And while naval crews knew better than to carry private computers and databases with them, one of the civilians might have done just that.  

And a portable encyclopaedia would be enough to point them to Sol, he thought.  And they’re designed for children.

“And that they won’t duplicate the improved Puller Drive for themselves,” Susan mused, thoughtfully.  “That would give them a whole host of options.”

“Intelligence is unable to give us any timetable on when - if - they will,” Henry confirmed, bluntly.  “We took six months to understand the principles behind it, but we had a working model to examine.  They ... may not have been so lucky.”

“It would be unwise to count on it,” Susan warned.

Henry nodded.  “Assuming the enemy successfully takes control of the Unity System,” he said, “they will have access to tramlines leading into human space as well as the chance to outflank the Tadpole defences and punch towards Tadpole Prime.  Joint Headquarters has decided that humanity should make its first major contribution to the war by securing Unity and preventing the unknowns from taking the system.”

“Because it’s also the easiest way to withdraw from Tadpole space,” Susan said, cynically.

“Correct,” Henry acknowledged.  He met her eyes, warningly.  “Joint Headquarters is aware, Captain, that we have an obligation to support our allies.  But, at the same time, they’re concerned about the prospect of major fleet losses.  We took heavy losses in the opening engagements of the war and they’re understandably concerned about the danger they represent.”

Susan nodded, curtly.  “Does that mean we will have orders to break contact and retreat if the odds swing too heavily against us?”

“Yes,” Henry said.  He nodded to the bulkhead.  “How long does it take to put a battleship together?”

“Vanguard took five years,” Susan said, shortly.  “Her sisters took two years - but by then, we understood what we were doing.”

“And had ironed out the glitches in the design,” Henry said.  Even with his level of access he hadn't been able to read everything about the Vanguard-class, but he knew that Commodore Naiser and his team had run into all sorts of problems as they struggled to finalise the design and turn the diagrams into reality.  “The point is, Captain, that major fleet losses in the coming battles could shorten the war.  We have space to trade for time and we’re going to need it.”

“I understand,” Susan said.  “But will the Tadpoles?”

“They are a remarkably practical species,” Henry said.  “I think they will understand.”

He kept the rest of the thought to himself.  Joint Headquarters hadn't forgotten all of the lessons of the First Interstellar War, but they’d clearly forgotten some of them.  Their elaborate orders, designed to cover every imaginable scenario, gave very little leeway to the commanders on the spot.  And the moment they ran into something the orders didn't cover, they were going to be in deep trouble.

“I hope you’re right,” Susan said.  “We don’t need two wars on our hands.”

Henry nodded in agreement.  The Tadpoles didn't think like humans, a lesson he’d had pounded into his skull time and time again.  Some of their laws made sense, but others were frankly incomprehensible ... and there were gaps in their legal system that constantly horrified their human allies.  But Henry had no doubt that they felt the same way about humanity.  He'd once spent two hours trying to explain rape to them and discovered that they reacted with horror and incomprehension.

But their child mortality rates are through the roof, he thought.  And that horrifies us too.

“Assuming we get there before the enemy, we are to take up defensive position and evacuate as many of the colonists as possible,” he said.  “Once the enemy arrive, we are to drive them out of the system by any means necessary.  JHQ would be delighted if we captured an enemy ship or two - and a few of their personnel - but the main priority is to score an outright victory over the newcomers.  Admiral Harper has authority to launch a counterattack if he feels it justified ...”

He shook his head.  “Protecting Unity is the key,” he added, softly.  “That’s politically important for our lords and masters, I think.”

Susan nodded in silent agreement.  Henry understood.  Unity had been discovered shortly after the First Interstellar War and, given its position in the heart of the neutral zone between the Human Sphere and the Tadpoles, the question of settlement rights had always been a touchy one.  He had been involved in hammering out the agreement to share the world, despite strong feelings on both sides that colony worlds should not be shared.  But then, it wasn't as if the two races really impinged on one another.  

“I heard that funding was almost cancelled twice,” Susan said.  “And that settlers were few and far between.”

“It wasn't the settlers that posed a problem,” Henry said, “even though there was some fear that we were risking another Terra Nova.  But funding ... that was threatened more than once.”

Susan frowned.  “Do they have any defences at all?”

“Just a handful of automated orbital weapons platforms,” Henry said.  “They never had the level of investment they needed, even though Unity was quite a promising star system.  Too many question marks over who owned the system, really.”

“Wonderful,” Susan said.  She took a final swig from her glass and put it down on the table, then looked at him.  “There was no way to arrange for some kind of return on investment?”

Henry shook his head.  A colony world was a very good long-term investment, if someone got in on the ground floor, but Unity had too many caveats to make it a very good investment for anyone.  The Tadpole economic system was so different from humanity’s that he doubted they understood the concept of ownership, let alone a return on investment.  Perhaps it was possible to work out a deal with the human settlers, but even that would be chancy.  The investors Unity needed were unwilling to take the risk unless the governments guaranteed their investments ...

... And, with far too many other demands on their budgets, governments had been unwilling to make that commitment.  

And the treaty stipulated that the system had to be largely undefended, he thought, sourly.  I don’t think anyone wants to invest billions of pounds when they could lose their investment overnight.

“Which means that the colonists will probably not be inclined to listen to us,” Susan said, finally.  “Strong-minded independent types?”

“Mostly,” Henry said.  “Each of the Great Powers provided a cadre of settlers, but it wasn't easy to find suitable volunteers without offering massive inducements.  There are just too many other potential destinations.  The ones who did volunteer were people who wanted to be away from the government or had some ... reason ... for wanting to leave the Human Sphere permanently.  I think they were seriously considering deporting small-time criminals to make up the numbers.”

“God help them,” Susan said.  “Did they ever try?”

“Not to Unity, thankfully,” Henry said.  “Someone pointed out that it would be bad if the Tadpoles got a good look at what sort of bastards we could be.”

“They captured a database or two of our popular entertainment,” Susan pointed out.  She smiled, rather thinly.  “I’m surprised they didn't insist on fighting the war to the bitter end.”

Henry shrugged.  The Tadpoles hadn't understood much of the entertainment files they’d captured - and, even with human cultural experts trying to bridge the gap, they’d never really made progress.  Much human entertainment was as incomprehensible to them as their entertainment was to human observers.  Trying to explain the ninth season of Star Trek had wasted a couple of hours, even though the tenth season had featured a Tadpole officer on the Enterprise-Z.  They just hadn't understood what they were seeing.

He put the matter aside as he leaned forward.  “The planetary settlers, we think, will help us, but they may also resent us,” he warned.  “That’s another problem for me.”

Susan lifted her eyebrows.  “You've been there?”

“Not for five years,” Henry said.  He’d visited twice, once when the first colony was landed and again when the third batch of settlers arrived, but he hadn't had much time to look around.  The handful of settlers he’d met had struck him as the usual hardy outdoors type, eyeing him with disdain for being born with a silver spoon in his mouth.  “I imagine things will have changed a great deal in that time.”

“Probably,” Susan agreed.

Henry gave her a long look.  “Can I ask a more personal question?”

Susan lifted her eyebrows, but nodded shortly.

“Tell me,” Henry said.  “When was the last time you slept?”

“I caught a couple of hours sleep last night,” Susan said.  She seemed surprised by the question, which nagged at his mind until he remembered she’d been bombarded with sharp questions, all prying into her innermost thoughts and feelings, over the last month.  “There’s too much to do, Your Excellency.”

“I would still advise a sounder sleep,” Henry said, delicately.  He wouldn't have liked to be told anything of the sort, back when he'd been a starfighter pilot ... and he knew, all too well, that Kurt Schneider would not have hesitated to tell him to go to his bunk - and ground him from flying, if he refused to take proper care of himself.  “There’s still a day or two before the fleet has to move to the RV point, right?”

“Yes,” Susan said.  She cleared her throat.  “I’ve been away from this ship for a month, Your Excellency.  I have to command her in battle, but I don’t have anything like a complete understanding of her new capabilities - not yet.  The new weapons mix is largely unfamiliar to me, as are the repairs and modifications made to her hull.  I have to know what I have in my hand before I try to use it.”

“And you are on the verge of falling asleep,” Henry said, gently.  “You’ll have two months, in transit, to get to know your ship.  I’m sure your crew will have brought any significant concerns to your attention by now.”

“We may not know they are significant concerns,” Susan said.  She looked, just for a moment, as if she was fighting back a yawn.  “But you may have a point.”

“It’s no good getting back in the command chair,” Henry said, “if you put yourself in sickbay through overwork.”

Susan gave him a sharp look, which - in itself - proved just how tired she was.  Glaring at an ambassador, even one she probably considered a friend of sorts, was never a good idea.  He resisted the urge to point it out and waited, knowing he couldn't go any further.  Calling the ship’s doctor might be technically within his power, depending on how one looked at it, but it would utterly destroy their working relationship.  She’d see it as a betrayal.

And she doesn't know I spoke up for her, he thought, numbly.  He was sure of that, now.  She isn’t used to having anyone stand up for her.

“I’ll catch some sleep,” Susan said, finally.  “And I’ll expect a full copy of your department’s findings before you transfer - if you transfer.”

“I’ll do my best to stay out of your hair,” Henry promised.  He rose and bowed politely as she rose too.  “And you’ll be first in line to hear what we discover.”

“Try and find a way to talk to them,” Susan said.  “Fighting the war would be a great deal easier if we knew what they wanted.”

Chapter Eight

The shuttle hatch didn't look ominous - it was a standard hatch, no different from countless others installed on countless starships - but George couldn't help feeling a flicker of nervousness as she stared at the blank metal and waited.  She’d received the update only ten minutes ago, informing her that the shuttle carrying the new midshipmen was on its way and hurried down to the hatch, without even bothering to change into her dress uniform.  She still wasn't sure if that had been a wise move or not.

You were a prefect, she told herself, as she clasped her hands behind her back.  You shouldn't be concerned about bossing younger students around.

But these aren't younger students, her own thoughts answered her.  Two of them are older than me - and one of them would be in command, save for a fluke chance.

She sucked in her breath as the indicator over the hatch turned from red to green.  She'd gone through the files, as Fraser had suggested, but they’d left her with more questions than answers.  There was no clear reason why Paula had been beached for so long, no suggestion as to what horrible crime she’d committed.  It was possible, George supposed, that she’d accidentally been rude to the Captain’s wife, but surely that would have been included in the files.  Her commander would have had to give some reason why he was issuing such a harsh punishment.  Transferring her sideways - to an asteroid mining station - would have been easier.

The hatch hissed open.  She stood straighter as four young officers filed into the compartment and snapped to attention, saluting the flag and then saluting her.  George returned the salute, taking advantage of the opportunity to study them carefully.  Both Simon Potter and Paula looked older than her, the latter so crisp in her white uniform that she could have stepped off a recruiting poster.  Her blonde hair was cut short in a determined attempt to render her features masculine, much like George herself.  She couldn't help wondering if she’d found a kindred soul.

“Welcome aboard,” she said, allowing her eyes to roam over them.  “I am Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam, First Middy.”

Simon Potter’s handsome face was a mask, but she saw a flicker of irritation crossing his features before he managed to hide it.  A handful of extra days and he would have been First Middy ... that had to sting.  His uniform was neat, but not crisp; it was clear, even to the untrained eye, that he’d been a midshipman for over a year.  He lacked the freshness of a midshipman who’d only just left the Academy.  

Beside him, Clayton Henderson looked ... odd.  George studied him thoughtfully, trying to put her finger on it.  There was nothing wrong with his uniform, nor his stance, but there was something wrong with him.  It nagged at her mind, suggesting that she’d seen something like it before, yet no matter how hard she thought, she couldn't see it.  There was a blandness about his features that surprised her, even in naval uniform.  She resolved to keep a sharp eye on him and turned her attention to his companion.

Midshipwoman Felicity Wheeler was a slight girl, wearing a naval uniform that looked a size or two too big for her.  George had no idea how she managed to give that impression - it was beyond belief that the quartermaster wouldn't have provided her with a uniform that fitted perfectly - but it was hard to escape the sense that she was under eighteen.  George knew for a fact that she was twenty-two - it was rare for someone to enter the Academy before turning eighteen, although George herself had managed it - and yet she looked utterly unsure of herself, utterly out of place.  She should be grateful, George supposed, that she didn't have to deal with Fraser as First Middy.

George cleared her throat.  “Follow me,” she ordered, keeping her voice calm.  It wasn't that unlike being a school prefect.  “Once we’re in Middy Country, we’ll sit down and have a long talk.”

She led the way through the maze of corridors, wondering if she should have tasked one of them with leading the way.  Their orientation packet would have included a shipboard diagram, a map of the giant battleship; it would be interesting, she supposed, to see how many of them had actually studied it.  But then, she knew from bitter experience that the orientation packet didn't include all the details.  She’d managed to get lost more than once, even though she’d memorised the original set of deck plans.  Fraser had been very sarcastic after she’d nearly been late to her duty assignments a couple of times.

And he told me to make sure I always arrived early, she thought, as they passed through the hatch into Middy Country.  He never gave me any better advice.

“Put your knapsacks in the lockers and choose a bunk, then join me in the wardroom,” she ordered.  “If any of you need to go to the toilet, go now.”

She watched, feeling growing concern, as the four newcomers bickered over the bunks.  She hadn't fought over the lockers, had she?  But then, she'd been one of two new midshipmen and the pecking order had already been established.  Potter laid claim to the locker closest to hers, pushing Henderson aside; Paula and Felicity seemed torn over who should have the locker furthest away from the bunks.  Technically, it should have been Felicity’s, but Paula seemed to want it.  And to think she could claim the one right after Henderson, if she wished.

“That will do,” she snapped at Potter, when he pulled Felicity back from claiming the upper bunk.  They’d always been seen as better than the lower bunks, although objectively she knew there was no real difference.  “There’s more than enough room for all of us.”

“She should be at the bottom,” Potter argued.  There was a glint of irritation in his eyes, mixed with an unspoken challenge.  “She’s just left the academy.”

“And you are expected to be an officer and a gentleman,” George said, feeling a flicker of sympathy for Fraser.  No wonder he’d been so tempted to settle matters with his fists.  “Take one of the lower bunks, then join me in the wardroom.”

George sighed as she turned and left the compartment.  Henderson and Paula, thankfully, had taken their bunks without complaint, although she caught Henderson looking at the upper bunks a little wistfully.  No doubt he was looking forward to being First Middy himself, she thought, even though it would take several years before he was the senior midshipman.  She might be promoted, but other midshipmen might be brought onboard ...

“Take a cup of something and sit down,” she ordered, once all four midshipmen had assembled in the wardroom.  “And take a bar of chocolate from the fridge too.”

She smiled, inwardly, at the flicker of astonishment on Potter’s face, although Paula showed no visible reaction.  The two younger middies didn't realise just how odd it was to hand out chocolate bars, certainly not real chocolate.  They were in for a shock when someone gave them a cheap mass-produced navy-issue quasi-chocolate bar.  George had heard that they cost the government a pound apiece, but no one knew what happened to the remaining seventy-five pence.  She wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that it vanished into a top secret black project on the other side of the Human Sphere.

“First, welcome to Middy Country,” she said, once they were all sitting down.  Felicity and Henderson were munching their chocolate, while the older - and wiser - midshipmen had concealed their bars in their pockets.  “This is going to be your home for the next six months, at the very least.  If you should happen to want to leave ... well, it isn't going to happen unless you can talk the doctor into a medical discharge.”

She smiled, rather humourlessly.  The doctor would take a dim view of any malingering, particularly amongst the officers.  God knew George had seen quite a few girls, back at school, claiming to be ill - or homesick - and almost all of them had bucked up after a quick visit to the matron.  Personally, she suspected their conditions had improved so rapidly because hardly anyone wanted to visit the matron.  The woman had been widely believed to be a war criminal from a Russian gulag.  She’d certainly been unpleasant enough.

“Second, I’m afraid you’re going to have to hit the ground running,” she added.  “Normally, there would be one or two newcomers and five or six experienced hands.  Now, you have me, two midshipmen with experience on other vessels and two newcomers.  I’m afraid that means there will be a great deal of work and hardly any downtime.”

“We can take it,” Potter said, cheerfully.

“I’ll be relying on you and Paula to handle yourselves as much as possible,” George said, firmly.  “You already have a number of badges, so I’ve assigned you to duty posts where you can actually be of use.  If you have problems, of course, let me know.”

“We won’t have any problems,” Potter said.  He gave Paula a suggestive wink, but she didn't show any trace of a reaction.  “You can count on us, really.”

George eyed him darkly, then nodded.  “Clayton and Felicity will have to start the standard program from scratch, which won’t be easy because the crew is already overworked,” she added.  “I’ve put together a training program for both of you, including a great deal of time in the simulators.  You won’t receive your first set of badges until you’re actually checked out on the various consoles and departments, but we’ll get you as far along as possible before you’re expected to perform.”

“It’s no substitute,” Potter said.

“No, it isn't,” George said.  She would have been more impressed if that wasn’t common knowledge.  Their instructors had hammered into their heads, time and time again, that there was no substitute for actual experience.  She’d known promising cadets who’d flunked out when confronted with a real problem.  “Do you have any better suggestions?”

“I do have several badges,” Potter said.  “It wouldn't be hard for me to introduce them to the systems ...”

“Except you’re not cleared to train,” George said.  She had no idea what the XO would say, if she tried, but she suspected it would be very bad.  Allow a junior midshipman to train his subordinates?  She’d be lucky if she only got beached long enough to put her right back at the bottom of the pecking order.  “Or do you have a training certificate that isn't included in your file?”

She scowled at Potter, who looked back at her with an irritating firmness.  “I’m just trying to help.”

“Then keep your help reasonable,” George snapped.  She forced herself to calm down.  “We will concentrate on simulations as much as possible, at least until we can get some proper training done.”

Standing, she keyed the wall-mounted terminal.  “You have the rest of the day to explore the ship and orientate yourself,” she said.  “If you have memorised the deck plans, you would be well-advised to go through the ship and make sure you know what’s different.  Quite a few things have changed in the last month and the deck plans in the orientation packet are probably out of date.”

“Probably,” Paula repeated.

“Probably,” George said.  Paula should have enough experience to know, by now, just how easily such things could get out of date.  The bureaucracy took weeks or months to catch up, by which time the interior designs could have changed again.  “You can download copies of your timetables, assignment schedules and the ship’s files from the database.  If you have any problems, or you think you can't handle your tasks, let me know.  This is not the time and place to pretend that you are super-competent.”

“Or Stellar Star,” Felicity said, with a shy smile.

“You don’t have the bust for it,” Potter said.  “Or the hair ...”

“Or the scriptwriter,” Paula added.  She smiled, rather humourlessly.  “Stellar Star has the most powerful weapon of all - a friendly man writing the lines.”

“It isn't as if she has a bad technique,” Potter objected.  “Fall out of her uniform every twenty minutes ... who’s going to say no to her?”

George cleared her throat.  “And in the real world, Stellar Star would be arrested and put in front of a court martial board,” she said.  “Trying her techniques would land you in the brig too.”

She smiled, recalling an incident from the Academy.  One of her instructors, after catching George and a few of her friends watching the latest movie, had ordered them to work out a charge sheet for Stellar Star, assuming she was actually a real person.  They’d concluded that she could be dishonourably discharged for everything from conduct unbecoming to an officer to theft and misuse of naval resources.  And the instructor had added a dozen other charges without even trying.  

But she couldn’t help noticing Felicity’s face fall at the gentle ribbing.

She’ll have to toughen up, she told herself, sternly.  How did she pass four years at the Academy without a thick skin?

“Potter, Henderson, Wheeler, you are dismissed,” she said, firmly.  “Potter; report to the tactical department at 0900 tomorrow, as stated in your timetable.  Henderson, Wheeler; report to the Chief Engineer.  Spurgeon, remain behind.”

George watched the three midshipmen leave, then turned to look at Paula.  The older woman gazed back at her impassively, her face utterly unreadable.  George couldn't help thinking that she might have been carved from ice, for all the expression she showed.  And yet, there was something about Paula that bothered her on a very primal level.  Nothing like Fraser, she thought, but something equally dangerous.

She pushed the unease out of her thoughts with an effort.  “Spill,” she ordered.

Paula quirked an eyebrow.  “Spill?”

“You were stripped of three years of seniority,” George said.  She’d heard of midshipmen being retroactively beached all the time, but never for more than a couple of months.  An offense so serious as to require more punishment surely deserved court martial ... unless, for some reason, Paula had decided not to contest the NJP.  “Three years.  What did you do to deserve that?”

“I believe, with the greatest respect,” Paula said, “that my former life is none of your business.”

“I’m the First Middy,” George said.  She was damned if she was going to let Paula intimidate her.  “And something that happened in your ... former life ... may cause problems for me.”

“If you had a need to know,” Paula told her coolly, “your superiors would have told you.”

She held up a hand before George could come up with a response.  “Rest assured, it will not pose any problems for you,” she added.  “And you can have my word on that, if that is enough for you.”

George met her eyes, refusing to look away.  “What did you do?”

Paula sighed heavily.  “If you insist on knowing ...”

“I do,” George said.

“I was caught in bed with a lieutenant,” Paula said.  Her voice was very flat.  “It was ... strongly suspected ... that he had been fiddling with my efficiency reports, in exchange for sex.  He threw himself on his sword for me, insisting that he hadn't done anything to help my career.  I believe he was dishonourably discharged from the navy.”

George winced.  “What the hell were you thinking?  What was he thinking?”

She looked at Paula and knew the answer.  Cut from ice or not, Paula was beautiful in a way that made George feel decidedly frumpy.  She could have worked at the resort on Mars without any plastic surgery at all.  Yes, she could easily see some fool of a lieutenant inviting her into bed, despite the risk.  Some men - and some women too - were too fond of allowing their smaller heads to do their thinking.

“I was told that I could go right back to the start,” Paula added, “or be discharged myself.  I chose to remain in the navy, even though promotion seemed unlikely.”

George considered it for a long moment.  There was something about the story that didn't quite add up.  Paula didn't have a hope in hell of further promotion and she had to know it, not with her record ... unless she did something so heroic that the promotions board decided she’d paid for her sins.  But there was a war on.  Paula might just have a chance.

And if she was discharged, she’d find it hard to gain employment, George thought.  A sealed record wouldn't look much better than a dirty one.

“I see,” she said, finally.

“I would be grateful if you didn’t share the story with anyone else,” Paula said.  “I ... intend to focus on my career, rather than ...”

“Get into bed with senior officers,” George finished.  She was sure Paula had learned her lesson.  Hell, she’d been very lucky to be allowed to remain in the navy.  And yet, there were still unanswered questions.  “Might I suggest a chastity belt?”

Paula essayed a faint smile.  “Do you wear one?”

George gave her an unpleasant look.  That had hit a little bit too close to home.  She’d been separated from Barton for just under two days and her body already missed him dreadfully.  It wouldn’t be so bad, she was sure, once the ship finally got underway, but until then ... she shook her head, crossly.  She was going to be very busy managing the middies as well as handling her own duties and bucking for promotion.

And Potter is eying my back for the knife, she thought, tiredly.  A week of being beached would be enough to make him First Middy.

“No,” she said, sharply.  She swallowed the urge to make a catty remark - or assign punishment duty.  “I keep my panties on.  And I expect you to do the same.  Dismissed.”

Chapter Nine

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Captain,” Admiral Harper said.  “I’m glad to hear that your government made your promotion permanent.”

“I believe I have you to thank for some of it,” Susan answered.  She shook his hand, silently relieved that he hadn't taken the chance to ruin her career.  He would have been more than human if he hadn't felt some annoyance over her brief assumption of command.  “Your citation did my ego good.”

Harper smiled, cheerfully.  “And it was all true too,” he noted.  “It makes a pleasant change from the days we had to download whole dictionaries to find new ways to say ‘can walk on water and piss wine.’”

He nodded to a dark-skinned officer standing next to him.  “Can I introduce you to Keith Glass, my flag captain?”

“Charmed,” Susan said.  Glass could easily have passed for her elder brother or her uncle, although she'd only met her father’s side of the family a couple of times.  “We must share notes on commanding battleships when we have the time.”

“Of course,” Glass said.  He had a southern accent, although he’d lost some of the tenor during his service.  “New York is an impressive ship, but she hasn't seen actual combat just yet.”

Susan frowned as an American yeoman pushed a glass into her hand.  “She’ll have her chance,” she said, grimly.  “Did you learn anything from our experience?”

“The yard dogs insisted on slapping more armour on the hull,” Glass told her.  “Apparently, it’s good for our survival.”

“But lousy for our speed,” Susan said.  “Getting here took longer than I had expected.”

She scowled at the thought, relieved that Admiral Harper hadn't made an issue of their late arrival.  Vanguard had practically crawled to the RV point as the engineers tested and retested the drive.  Her armour was supposed to be solid - stronger even than the legendary Ark Royal’s - but she paid one hell of a mass penalty.  The aliens would have no trouble catching the ship, if they wanted to give chase, yet would they want to catch up?  Anything strong enough to go toe-to-toe with Vanguard would have serious problems actually getting into weapons range.

Unless they aim themselves at a target they know we have to defend, she thought.  Or force us to punch our way through them to reach the tramline.

Glass chatted to her as they circled the giant room, introducing her to the sixteen other commanding officers of Task Force Unity and the ground-force commanders.  General Kershaw, USMC, explained that he had every confidence that his light infantry could make an impression on the aliens, although Susan had her doubts.  If the task force controlled space, the aliens wouldn’t be able to land; if the task force was driven away from Unity, the aliens could drop KEWs on any human military force foolish enough to show itself.  The ground-based weapons stowed away on the giant American freighters might make a difference, but Susan wasn't convinced.  If nothing else, the aliens could simply throw rocks from a safe distance and batter the planet into surrender.

“There is, of course, a very simple question,” Captain Boreyev Yegorovich said.  The Russian officer leaned forward, his eyes glimmering with suppressed amusement.  “Why did the unknowns open fire as soon as they saw us?”

“We don’t know,” Susan said, irked.  The Russian had clearly had more than a few glasses of wine.  “We may never know until we learn how to communicate with them.”

“Ah,” Yegorovich said.  “But, you see, the Tadpoles opened fire without bothering to communicate - at least as far as we knew.  We thought they’d just come out of nowhere and invaded our space.  But there had been a prior encounter between humans and Tadpoles and we were the aggressor.”

“A problem that could have been resolved if they’d just talked to us,” Glass pointed out, tartly.  Heinlein had technically been an independent colony, but there had been no hiding the fact that the vast majority of the settlers had come from America.  “It isn't as if we would have risked war over a honest mistake.”

“You would certainly have been alone, if you had,” the Russian said.  He finished his glass and placed it on the table.  “Was there a prior encounter between the Tadpoles and the unknowns?”

“Not as far as we know,” Susan said.  She sighed, wishing that Prince Henry had accompanied her to the dinner.  “They hunted us - they stalked us - and then they opened fire.”

“We were trespassing on their territory,” Yegorovich pointed out.  “How pleased would we be if someone sent a large fleet into the Terra Nova System?”

“Terra Nova, despite political problems, is a developed star system,” Captain Jeanette Pierre countered.  The Frenchwoman smiled, rather dryly.  “It would be obvious from the moment someone popped through the tramline that it was home to a spacefaring race.  They’d have to be blind not to see the freighters moving around the system, or the cloudscoops, or even the lights on the planet’s surface.  UXS-469 was - is - a completely empty star system.  There was no trace of any technological presence until they dropped their cloaks and opened fire.”

She tapped her glass, meaningfully.  “I’m sure we would have taken more precautions if we’d known we were being watched.”

“Yes,” Susan agreed.  “And if a large fleet did happen to appear at Terra Nova, wouldn't we try to communicate with it?”

“Terra Nova isn't expendable,” Yegorovich said.  “It’s practically the gateway to Earth.”

“The Tadpoles had no trouble sending their fleet through the system,” Glass said.  “It wasn't as if they bothered to bombard the planet or occupy the surface.”

“They didn't have to,” Yegorovich said.  “Terra Nova’s total industrial might is puny.”

So is yours, Susan thought.  The Russians had taken a beating during the war and even now, ten years later, they had yet to recover completely.  Sending a carrier to serve with the task force was one hell of a risk, even though they presumably wanted to re-establish themselves as serious players.  And losing New Russia hurt you badly.

Admiral Harper cleared his throat.  “I’m glad to hear that we are establishing a working relationship,” he said, cheerfully.  “But for the moment, the cooks are serving the meal and they will be very disappointed if we don’t eat it.”

Susan nodded and followed the other officers into the giant dining compartment.  The Americans had put out a long table, with Admiral Harper sitting at one end and his flag captain taking the other.  She took her assigned seat - they seemed to be handed out at random - and smiled as the yeomen appeared, carrying trays of food.  Being so close to Earth had its advantages.  They could - and did - have real food shipped to the RV point, rather than being forced to eat reconstituted dinners.

Don’t get used to it, she told herself firmly.  You’ll be eating recycled crap soon enough.

“It isn't that far from Thanksgiving,” Admiral Harper explained, as he started to carve a giant roast turkey.  “And I thought I’d treat you all to a traditional American dinner.”

“How kind of you,” Yegorovich said.  He was still drinking.  “And will we require stomach pumps afterwards?”

“I dare say they can be provided,” Harper said.  “But really, if you don’t want to eat the food, just say so.  The junior officers will appreciate it.”

Susan nodded to herself as she took a plate of turkey, then piled it high with potatoes, vegetables and gravy.  It didn't look that different from the dinners she’d eaten as a younger girl, although she knew the cooks would have worked hard to prepare it.  The Americans were determined that their crews should have a proper Thanksgiving dinner - just as the Royal Navy tried hard to make sure that everyone had turkey for Christmas - but it wasn't easy.  Keeping a few hundred turkeys in the freezer took up space that could be more efficiently used to store rations or pre-packaged meals.

The conversation at the dinner table, as they munched their way through the meal, was decidedly irrelevant to the war.  Susan was surprised at just how many subjects were covered, ranging from football to chess, but she supposed it was a way to learn more about their fellow officers.  Yegorovich explained, as the yeoman refilled his glass yet again, that Russia’s chances in the World Cup were extremely good - indeed, the Russians had spent a large fortune preparing the stadium in Moscow for the anticipated crowds.  She couldn't help wondering if the war would interrupt their plans.

Glass had the same thought.  “Do you think thousands of people will flock to Russia when there’s a war on?”

“There’s always a war on,” Yegorovich replied, bluntly.  “It makes no difference.”

Susan supposed that was true, for him.  Russia’s southern border was almost completely lawless, with criminals, bandits and terrorists running tiny kingdoms that lasted until a kill-team came to call.  The chaos regularly threatened to move north into Russia and the Russians responded brutally, hammering villages from orbit and sending in commandos to finish off the survivors.

“This isn't yet another brushfire along the border,” Glass needled.  “We’re staring down the barrel of another interstellar war.”

“Yes, but it is hundreds of light years away,” Yegorovich said.  “The average man in the street has far more reason to worry about terrorism - and putting food on the table - than he does about the war.  As far as he is concerned, we're heading off into the great unknown.”

“The entire world was bombarded, ten years ago,” Susan pointed out.  “It is a little more serious than a random terrorist attack.”

“Yes, but it is less important to a man concerned with surviving,” Yegorovich said.  “Just because something is important to us doesn't mean it’s important to everyone.”

“That’s true,” Jeanette said.  “My government was reluctant to commit anything to the task force.  The President had to argue hard to get authorisation to deploy my ship and crew to the front line.”

“And they sent a carrier, rather than a battleship,” Glass said.  “Do they consider you more expendable?”

Jeanette shrugged.  “There’s still room for a fleet carrier in this day and age,” she said.  “Yes, we did take hideous losses in the Battle of New Russia.  There’s no point in trying to argue that we didn't get our heads handed to us.  And yes, all of our pre-war carriers might as well be giant floating targets in the modern age.  But now ... we have more armour on our carriers and better weapons too.  And our starfighters have enhanced range.  Rest assured, we will more than pull our weight.”

“That’s right,” Yegorovich agreed.  “My government would hardly have dispatched my ship if they didn't expect us to make a difference.”

And let’s just hope, Susan thought, that you don’t make it seventeen destroyed ships instead of sixteen.

It was odd, she had to admit.  The Royal Navy had always deployed its interstellar carriers to the war zone, although that had led to a major disaster at New Russia.  But now, there were two carriers in the task force and neither of them were British - or American.  The Royal Navy had worked closely with the French - she had no doubt that Jeanette and her ship would fit smoothly into the task force - but she had no idea how well anyone would cope with the Russians.  It had been ten years since the Russians had exercised with anyone, let alone sent a capital ship to a war zone.

“We have two months to work on our planning,” Harper said, answering her unspoken concerns.  “I think that’s plenty of time to work out the kinks in our system.”

He motioned for them to rise and move back into the reception compartment, where more drinks and cigars were waiting.  Susan politely declined the offer of a Cuban cigar, even though they were staggeringly rare after Cuba had been battered with monstrous tidal waves during the Bombardment of Earth.  There might be vaccines against tobacco damage these days, but her father had always considered smoking a filthy habit.  She’d never really understood why it was so popular.

“I'm sure you’ve all had a private briefing from your governments,” Harper said, once they were all seated.  “And the basic ops plan has not changed.  If we get to Unity ahead of the aliens, we land troops, evacuate the population and then scout out the nearby systems, watching for the inevitable offensive.  If we don't, we evaluate the situation and then either harass the enemy or make a full-fledged attempt to evict them from the system.  Given the nature of the tramlines in that region, JHQ would obviously prefer we evicted the enemy before they manage to turn the Tadpole flank.”

“Which does prove they weren't prepared for war,” Captain Steve Stewart pointed out.  “If they’re having to scramble to get forces in place to secure their flanks, they clearly weren't expecting to have to fight.”

“Neither were we before the first war,” Glass countered.  “It didn't stop us assembling a multinational force.”

“Which is what they wanted us to do,” Yegorovich said.  “We could be sailing right into another trap.”

Susan had to admit he had a point.  The Tadpoles had deliberately held back after the early engagements of the First Interstellar War, giving the human race plenty of time to assemble the multinational force that had confronted them - and then they’d slaughtered the entire force, leaving only a handful of survivors.  It was possible, just possible, that the new enemies had something similar in mind, if they understood that they were waging war against two separate interstellar powers.  But she didn't see why they wouldn’t.  If nothing else, they would probably have recovered plenty of bodies after the first savage battle.

Harper nodded.  “The possibility has crossed JHQ’s mind,” he said.  “And that’s why their commitment is actually quite small, for the moment.  There won’t be a larger commitment until we are truly ready for war.”

“If we ever are,” Jeanette said.  “To us, the loss of thousands of spacers is tragic, but it may have made little impact on the general public.”

“I hope you’re wrong,” Susan said.

“Our population understands that we - they - have to make sacrifices,” Yegorovich thundered.  “And your populations should know it too.”

Harper tapped his glass.  “We depart tomorrow,” he said.  “My staff will be forwarding copies of the first exercise scenarios to you once we pass through the tramline to Terra Nova - we’ll commence simulations and starfighter drills shortly afterwards.  Depending on what news we receive from the front, particularly as we cross the border, we may have time for some proper exercises as well.  Before then ...”

He looked from face to face.  “Does anyone have any concerns that should be raised?”

“A secondary commanding officer has to be named,” Yegorovich said, bluntly.  Susan would have been surprised if he wasn't angling for the position himself.  “Right now, both you and your flag captain are on the same vessel.”

“New York is a tough ship,” Glass snapped.

“So were the Tadpole dreadnaughts,” Yegorovich sneered.  “It didn't stop them being blown to rubble, did it?”

“Captain Onarina will serve as my second,” Harper said.  He nodded to Susan, who stared at him in shock.  “She’s junior to all of you, but she has both combat and fleet command experience.  Captain Trodden will serve as her second, if things go badly wrong.  Right now, I would prefer to keep the chain of command on the battleships.  They’re tougher than the carriers.”

“Chernozhopi,” Yegorovich muttered.

Susan ignored him.  She’d been called worse.  And while she’d hated being mocked for the colour of her skin, she couldn't help feeling that she'd done better than many of the spoilt brats she’d known and detested at school.  The little bitches would never know what it was like to command a warship in combat ...

“We are being sent out, among other things, to uphold the honour of the human race,” Harper warned.  If he’d overheard Yegorovich’s comment, he gave no sign of it.  “JHQ would prefer, however, if we were careful during our engagements.  We have plenty of space to trade for time, if necessary.”

“Tadpole space,” Jeanette said.  “If we have to retreat, Admiral, which way do we go?”

“Back towards Earth,” Harper said.  “JHQ’s orders admit of no ambiguity, Captain.  We are not to risk getting bottled up in Tadpole space.”

Yegorovich snorted.  “Let me guess,” he said.  “The person who wrote these orders was not a serving naval officer.”

“They’re trying to please their political masters,” Harper said.  Susan rather suspected he privately agreed with Yegorovich.  “And they are leery about taking major losses if it can be avoided.”

“Of course they are,” Yegorovich sneered.

Susan kept her face expressionless.  Yegorovich might be a jerk - and he’d clearly hoped for a position he could use to make himself look good - but he had a point.  Being bottled up in Tadpole space was not going to happen unless the enemy pounded the fleet into scrap metal first.  And if that happened they were screwed anyway.  

And retreating back to human space would tell them where to go, she reminded herself.  They can just follow us into the Human Sphere.

“They’re the orders we have,” Harper said, patiently.  Susan was quietly impressed at his diplomacy.  She would have found it hard to handle Yegorovich for more than an hour or two without considering grievous bodily harm.  “If you want to have them altered, I suggest you petition your government.  They might just be able to talk JHQ into changing its mind.”

Yegorovich snorted.  “They just want a victory,” he said.  “They don’t care about how it comes.”

“Just like everyone else,” Stewart commented.

“Quite,” Harper said.  He looked around the compartment as the yeomen refilled glasses before withdrawing once again.  “Shall we now discuss tactical variables?”

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