The Cruel Stars

(Ark Royal, Book IX)

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
Book Nine: We Lead
Book Ten: The Longest Day
Book Eleven: The Cruel Stars

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Cover Blurb

A stand-alone set during the Ark Royal Era.

The Royal Navy never expected to fight a full-scale interstellar war.  Everyone knew the Great Powers would never risk everything on armed conflict, when there was plenty of room for everyone in outer space.  But when a hostile alien force stumbles across humanity’s handful of colony worlds, the Great Powers must set aside their differences and fight to preserve humanity from utter destruction.

Desperate for starships and manpower, the Royal Navy embarks upon an ambitious plan of converting freighters into makeshift carriers and recruiting reservists and criminals to fill the ranks.  Classed as expendable, the small carriers will be given the most dangerous missions to slow a remorseless alien foe ...

... And the pardons their crews have been offered will be meaningless if they die.
Author’s Note

The Cruel Stars is set in the same era as Ark Royal - the First Interstellar War - and runs within the same timeframe.  However, you do not have to have read Ark Royal to follow The Cruel Stars.

CGN 

Prologue

From: Commodore James Scorpio, Planning Cell Alpha Black
To: Admiral Sir Thomas Hanover, First Space Lord

Sir.

At the risk of sounding somewhat peevish, it must be noted that the sudden appearance of a new threat - an unexpected alien threat - is a tactical and strategic nightmare.  Our contingency planning - and long-term construction schedules - were based around a limited war with another human power, rather than a conflict with an alien power of unknown origin, motives and technological base.  The data from Vera Cruz, such as it is, tells us little about our opponents.  It behooves us, therefore, to prepare for a long war.

This will not be easy.  Assuming we cut as many corners as possible - and accept the risk of outright catastrophe - it will still take us six months to complete the fleet carriers under construction and another twelve to fourteen months to construct any new fleet carriers from scratch.  (Frankly, the risk of serious system failure at the worst possible time cannot be discounted.)  We are therefore faced with the prospect of a ‘come as you are’ war, with the danger - as in 2025 - that our forces and military stockpiles will be insufficient to the task at hand.  Fifteen fleet carriers - sixteen, if we count Ark Royal - are a staggering force, yet we know nothing about our enemy.  It is quite possible that they have enough fleet carriers at their disposal to outmatch all of humanity’s put together. 

While we can look to our allies - and the rest of the spacefaring powers - to assist in filling some of the holes in our order of battle, they will have similar problems of their own.  Most notably, they will be reluctant to put their fleet carriers in unnecessary jeopardy as, like us, fleet carriers represent a massive proportion of their military budgets.  Even if the various national governments devote a considerably greater percentage of their GNP to their militaries, it will still take time to bring new shipyards online, train new personnel, and start churning out new carriers.  Our most optimistic projections indicate that we will simply be unable to increase the pace of construction for at least two years.  Realistically speaking, that may be too optimistic.

Therefore, I propose that we activate the escort carrier contingency plans at once.

I concede that this will cause us problems.  Removing even a relatively small number of Workhorse-class bulk freighters from the shipping lanes will have knock-on effects, most notably disrupting our logistics during our frantic rush to establish forward lines of defence around New Russia.  We simply don’t have enough freighters at the best of times, despite nearly fifty years of trying to build up our interstellar shipping capability.  (Construction of new freighters is something we can push forward, fortunately.)  At the same time, we simply don’t have enough starfighter launching platforms to fight a full-scale war.  Losing a single fleet carrier, sir, means losing the personnel as well as the ship itself.  The loss of a single carrier would severely dent our ability to meet our commitments to both Britain and the united defence force.  From a purely cold-blooded point of view, sir, the destruction of a dozen Workhorses would not impede our ability to make war.

From a technical point of view, the conversion is only a matter of removing the hold facilities and replacing them with starfighter support and maintenance facilities.  Given that normal safety procedures are suspended, the first escort carrier could be ready for deployment within a week of going into the yard.  However, crewing does represent a problem.  While a significant number of freighter captains and crews are Royal Naval Reserve personnel, others are not and may be resistant to serving on the front lines.  (If nothing else, the question of nationality comes into play; freighter crews, particularly belters, are notorious for not asking too many questions about a prospective crewer’s past.) And our manpower resources are already stretched to the limit.

With that in mind, sir, I have the following suggestion ...

Chapter One

No one, Captain Abigail Harrison had often reflected, would consider HMMS Archibald Haddock’s bridge to be remotely photogenic.  It was a cramped mess, with five consoles and chairs jammed so close together that a crewman couldn't wave a hand without striking one of his fellow crewers.  Even the command chair was little more than a slightly elevated console, giving the merchant vessel’s commanding officer a prominence that many military and survey officers would insist she didn't deserve.  But it did have its advantages.  She could not only keep a very close eye on her crew, but cut them out of the command network at once if she felt it necessary.

Which might well be necessary, she thought, as she eyed Midshipwoman Podkayne Harrison’s back.  Poddy hasn’t handled a proper jump since we left Britannia.

She cleared her throat, loudly.  “Poddy?”

“I’m working on it, Captain,” Poddy said.  She knew better than to call Abigail anything other than Captain when they were both on duty.  “I’ve almost finished.”

“Check and recheck everything,” Abigail ordered, reminding herself to remain calm and composed.  Military ships might want to go through the tramline at speed, but there was no need for Haddock to hurry.  Her daughter had plenty of time to complete her calculations before making the jump.  “One mistake here and you’ll be in trouble.”

“So will the rest of us,” Lieutenant Anson Harrison put in.

“I’m relying on you to check your sister’s work,” Abigail said.  Her eldest son could be relied upon to point out any flaws, not least because he didn't want to compete with his sister for postings on the next cruise.  “And I’ll be checking it myself too.”

She saw Poddy stiffen and winced, inwardly.  It didn't feel right to put such pressure on her daughter, even though Poddy had grown up amongst the asteroids, where the slightest mistake could spell utter disaster.  But there was no choice.  Poddy couldn't be given her spacer badge until she calculated at least three jumps in succession, each one as smooth as possible.  Abigail certainly couldn't afford to develop a reputation for overlooking weaknesses in her children.  Nepotism was hardly unknown amongst the RockRats and interstellar shipping communities, where family ties were stronger than anything else, but promoting an incompetent was a good way to lose everything.  Poddy would have to start again - from the beginning - if she failed her last jump.

I went through it too, Abigail reminded herself.  Poddy can do it.

She watched her daughter’s fingers darting over the console.  Poddy was slight, with long brown hair and a pale face that owed more to her father than her mother.  It was hard to believe, sometimes, that they were actually related.  Abigail’s black hair, tanned skin and oval eyes - to say nothing of her heavyset body - spoke of a more exotic origin than the asteroid belt.  But then, Poddy had had the latest set of genetic modifications spliced into her DNA before she’d been born.  She wouldn't suffer from overeating unless she really overdid it.

Poddy’s console chimed.  “Done, Captain,” she said.  “It’s ready.”

“Anson, check it,” Abigail ordered.  She tapped her own console, bringing up Poddy’s calculations on her screen.  “You’ll be rewarded for any mistakes you find.”

Poddy tensed, slightly.  Abigail felt a flicker of guilt and reminded herself, sharply, that it was for Poddy’s own good.  Better she had her mistakes pointed out by her family rather than some unrelated captain, who wouldn't hesitate to lock her in her cabin and throw her off the ship at the next port if he felt she was dangerously unreliable.  Besides, their lives were at stake.  A minor mistake in calculating the jump along the tramline might just destroy the entire ship.

Or risk getting our licence pulled, Abigail thought.  Her lips twitched.  A fate worse than a fate worse than death.

“It appears to be fine,” Anson said, grudgingly.  He turned to look at Abigail, his white teeth flashing against his dark skin.  “Captain, I believe we can make the jump.”

Abigail nodded, slowly.  There wasn't anything wrong with the calculations, as far as she could tell.  She’d checked everything with savage intensity, just to be sure.  And that meant ...

She leaned back in her chair.  “Make the jump,” she ordered.  “Now!”

A low whine echoed through the ship as the Puller Drive powered up.  Abigail braced herself, feeling her ears starting to hurt.  Something was wrong with the drive field, although no one - not even her engineer - had been able to find the cause.  Perhaps a handful of components were simply worn down, ahead of time.  She’d replace the whole installation, if she could afford it.  But she simply didn't have the money to even begin to replace it.

And there isn't much hope of getting a loan, she thought, as the whining sound rose to a crescendo.   Not unless we really hit it big ...

Haddock shook, violently.  The displays blanked, just for a second.  Abigail gritted her teeth, allowing herself a moment of relief as the displays started to come back online.  A civilian would have assumed that Poddy had messed up her calculations, but Abigail knew better.  It was a typical jump.  She’d heard that the latest versions of the Puller Drive could take a ship through the tramlines without so much as spilling the captain’s coffee, but she didn't believe it.  Besides, even if it was true, there was no way she’d be able to afford a newer drive either.

“Jump complete, Captain,” Anson reported.  “We have arrived in the Sol System.”

“Made it,” Poddy crowed.

Abigail allowed herself an indulgent smile.  “So you did,” she said, trying to sound proud.  “We’ll go out for dinner once we reach Ceres - and you can choose where we go.”

Anson looked up.  “All of us?”

“Yes, all of us,” Abigail said, firmly.  Anson probably wanted to visit the brothel.  She didn't blame him for that - God knew it had been a long time since she’d had anyone in her bed - but family came first.  They’d be at Ceres for at least a week.  “Poddy, send a standard message to the shipping coordinator.  Inform them that we have returned.”

“Aye, Captain,” Poddy said.

“Anson, set course for Ceres,” Abigail added.  “No need to hurry.”

“Aye, Captain,” Anson said.

Abigail smiled as she pulled up the jump records and checked them against Poddy’s calculations.  The young girl had done a good job.  The calculations matched the records perfectly.  Not that Abigail had expected anything else - a serious mishap would probably have ended poorly - but it was still important to prove that Poddy had earned the right to style herself a navigator.  The guilds would check the records themselves, if Poddy decided to leave Haddock.  Abigail made a mental note to ensure that the records were copied over as soon as they arrived on Ceres.  One of her adult children was probably going to seek a transfer soon, no matter what Abigail did.  There was only limited room for advancement on Haddock.

And Anson wants to captain his own ship, Abigail thought.  Her eldest son was twenty, more than old enough to strike out on his own.  He’ll probably be looking for postings when we reach Ceres.

Poddy’s console bleeped.  “Captain, I am receiving a priority message from the Merchant Shipping Guild,” she said.  “It’s tagged as urgent.”

Abigail frowned.  The message couldn't have been sent from Ceres.  It would take hours for the message she’d sent to reach the asteroid, let alone for any reply to be sent back.  The light-speed delay would see to that.  And yet ... she keyed her console, bringing up the message.  The header insisted that it had been sent from a monitoring station much closer to the designated emergence point.  She felt a flicker of concern as she ran the message through the computers.  The emergency codes all checked out.

ALERT.  ALERT.  STUFT EMERGENCY.  YOU ARE ORDERED TO PROCEED IMMEDIATELY TO RNRB TALLYMAN.  ACKNOWLEDGE, THEN RADIO SILENCE.  MESSAGE REPEATS.  ALERT ...

“What?”

Anson glanced at Poddy’s console.  “A STUFT Emergency?”

“Ships Taken Up From Trade,” Abigail translated, absently.  “They expect us to head straight for Tallyman.”

She sucked in her breath, thinking hard.  She was, technically, a Royal Navy Reservist.  It was the price she’d paid for the loan that had allowed her to purchase her ship.  But she’d never expected to be actually called upon to serve.  She’d never seen any of the authorisation codes attached to the message, outside a handful of update messages.  Her ship had certainly never been summoned at short notice.  They hadn't even been dragged into any drills.

“They’re out of their minds,” Anson said.  “Mum ... do you know what will happen if we don’t meet the deadline ...”

Abigail nodded, grimly.  Interstellar shipping was never as predictable as travel on Earth - no one would risk setting their clocks by a starship’s arrival - but they were expected to arrive at Ceres within a certain timeframe.  Being late would cost them badly, particularly if the penalty clauses loaded into their contract went into effect.  And besides, their cargo was perishable.  They might wind up being sued if they failed to deliver it on time.

The Navy is supposed to indemnify us, she thought.  But we might lose everything by the time the bureaucrats actually get around to paying out.

She shook her head.  “Anson, set course for Tallyman,” she ordered.  “Poddy ...”

“Mum,” Anson protested.  “If we don’t get there ...”

“I know,” Abigail snapped.  She made a mental note to chew him out later.  Other captains wouldn't be quite so forgiving of outbursts on the bridge.  “But what would you have us do?”

She watched Anson trying to think of a solution and coming up with nothing.  There wasn't one, as far as Abigail could tell.  Haddock could reverse course and go ... go where?  The Royal Navy would eventually realise that the freighter wasn't going to show up at Tallyman and file charges, at which point the ship and her crew would grow too hot to handle.  Even the independent asteroid settlements would refuse to have anything to do with them, if they were lucky.  They’d be far more likely to be arrested and be shipped straight to the nearest penal world.  And the thought of being locked out of space was terrifying.  

“... Fuck,” Anson said.

“Don't worry,” Poddy said.  “I’m sure this will be nothing.”

“Hah,” Anson muttered.  His fingers touched his console.  “Course laid in, Captain.  We should be there in seven hours.”

“Very good,” Abigail said.  “Poddy, send an acknowledgement and then go silent.  No one is to send a message without my direct authorisation.”

“Understood,” Poddy said.

Abigail rose.  “Take the bridge, Anson,” she ordered.  “I’ll be in my cabin, catching up with my sleep.”

“I’ll wake you if anything happens,” Anson assured her.

“See that you do,” Abigail said.

She stepped through the hatch and walked down to her cabin.  It was a tiny compartment, barely large enough for a bed, a small desk and a private washroom, the only real luxury afforded to the freighter’s commanding officer.  Abigail had heard that military officers had real cabins, but there was no way anyone could fit anything bigger into Haddock.  The freighter was huge, yet the crew spaces were small.  She loved her ship, but she’d be glad to move into a hotel for a few days when they completed their voyage.  A proper bath alone would work wonders.  She was ruefully aware that she - and the rest of her crew - stank.  

A good thing no one notices the smell after the first few hours, she thought, as she climbed into bed.  But they’ll probably force us to go through decontamination when we reach Tallyman.

Sleep didn't come easy.  Indeed, by the time Anson paged her, she didn't feel as though she’d slept at all.  She sat upright and keyed her terminal, linking to the external sensors.  RNRB Tallyman was a fairly standard asteroid base - one designed for mining and zero-g construction work rather than habitation - but it was surrounded by a dozen Workhorse-class freighters and a pair of naval destroyers.  Abigail shivered as she checked the freighter ID codes, recognising a couple of names.  Whatever was going on was serious.  The Royal Navy wouldn’t yank so many freighters off the shipping lanes without a very good excuse.

“They want you to shuttle over to the base,” Anson said, over the intercom.  “Now, apparently.  The shuttle is already on its way.”

“Joy,” Abigail muttered.  “Open the lower hatch for them.  Just let me slip into something a little less comfortable and I’ll be down.”

She stripped off her shipsuit, sponged herself down and rapidly donned a fresh outfit.  It wasn't a dress uniform, but it would have to do.  She literally had nothing else to wear.  The stuffed shirts who ran the navy might be outraged if they saw her, but it didn't matter.  They should know they hadn't called her after she’d arrived at Ceres.  She’d have hired something more suitable if they’d arranged a meeting on the asteroid.  God knew she didn't meet potential clients in smelly shipsuits.

Pinning her hair back into place, she hurried down to the hatch, checking the telltales before she opened it.  The shuttle was fairly standard, the interior surprisingly luxurious for a military craft.  A Royal Marine checked her fingerprints and DNA code, then directed her to a comfortable seat.  Abigail wondered, helplessly, if she was in trouble.  And yet, she knew it was absurd.  The Royal Navy wouldn't have bothered to summon her to Tallyman if it wanted to arrest her.  Ceres had an internal police force that would have happily taken Abigail and her crew into custody until matters were sorted out.

She forced herself to relax as the shuttle undocked and headed back to the asteroid.  The pilot kept up a steady stream of chatter, speaking to his controller ... Abigail had to fight to keep the contempt off her face.  Didn't the navy trust its pilots?  The endless checklists bred sloth and apathy, not efficiency.  God knew she trusted Anson to handle her ship in her absence ... she wouldn't insult his intelligence by forcing him to run through a checklist for something as simple as a docking manoeuvre.  Maybe the pilot was new.  But in that case, he shouldn't be flying the shuttle ...

A low clunk echoed through the craft as it docked with the asteroid.  Abigail rolled her eyes in annoyance - Anson wouldn’t have banged a shuttle against the airlock - and then rose as the hatch opened.  There was gravity inside, surprisingly.  She’d half-expected the entire complex to be in zero-g.  But then, the military could afford far more powerful and selective gravity generators than any civilian freighter crew.  No doubt half their crew was composed of groundpounders.  She could move easily from gravity to zero-g and back again, but groundpounders could not.  Half of them couldn't even fly to orbit without throwing up.

Sad, she thought, as she stepped through the hatch.  Who’d want to live on the ground?

A young man wearing a midshipman’s uniform met her on the far side.  “Captain Harrison?”

“That’s me,” Abigail said.  She resisted the urge to point out that her identity had already been checked.  The midshipman looked so young that she was tempted to check if he was still in nappies.  Poddy looked older - and more responsible - and Poddy was fifteen!  “What can I do for you?”

“Please, come with me,” the midshipman said.  His voice was very quiet.  He turned, motioning for her to follow him.  “There’s a briefing in the ... ah ... briefing room.”

“And where else would we hold a briefing?”  Abigail asked, rhetorically.  “Lead on, young man.”

The back of the young man’s neck went red, Abigail noted.  She smiled to herself, then followed him through a series of drab - and unmarked - corridors.  There was no personality to the complex at all, no decorations ... there weren't even any paintings or drawings produced by the local children.  But then, there were probably no children on the base.  The RNRB complex might just have been reactivated at very short notice.  She mulled it over as she followed him into the briefing room, where four other merchant skippers were waiting for her.

“Abigail,” Captain Philip Chester said.  He was a colossal man, with a beard that reached down to his chest.  His shipsuit was carefully tailored to show off his muscles.  “It’s good to see you again.”

“You too,” Abigail said, warmly.  They’d shared a bed a few times, back when they’d been younger.  It hadn't meant much to either of them, she knew, but it had been fun.  “What’s an ugly bastard like you doing in a place like this?”

“Waiting for you, it would seem,” Chester said.  He waved a hand around the room.  “We were all summoned here ...”

“I’m sorry about the delay,” a new voice said.  A young man strode into the room, closing the hatch behind him.  “We were hoping to get started earlier, but something came up.”

“That’s quite all right,” Captain Dawes said, sarcastically.  “We’re just sitting here, twiddling our thumbs.”

“Good,” the naval officer said, as he motioned for Abigail to take a seat.  He didn't seem to have any sense of irony.  “My name is Sidney Jameson, Commodore Jameson.  I’m sorry that you were all summoned here at short notice.  Please rest assured that we wouldn't have called you if the situation wasn't truly urgent.”

“I’d prefer to rest assured that you were going to compensate us for our losses,” Captain Dawes told him.

“We will,” Jameson said.  He took a breath.  “We are at war.”

Abigail felt ice trickling down her spine.  “At war?  With whom?”

Jameson looked at her.  “Aliens.”

Chapter Two

One day in Colchester, Commander Alan Campbell had long since come to believe, was just like any other.  He would be awoken at seven in the morning, fed something that might just have passed for a decent breakfast, then put through a routine of physical exercise, academic study and basic counselling.  Alan wasn't sure why the Royal Navy bothered with the latter - as a member of D Company, he would be dishonourably discharged as soon as his sentence was up - and frankly he rather hated it.  The military counsellors regarded him as a pimple on the Royal Navy’s bum and the civilian counsellors found him incomprehensible.  But then, he was in jail.  He simply couldn't decline counselling if the jail’s commanding officer thought he deserved it.

It’s a punishment, he thought, when he bothered to think about it at all.  Making me talk to some bushy-haired, bright-eyed, over-educated idiot is cruel and unusual punishment.

He deserved it, he supposed.  He’d killed his wife, after all.  And even though he tried to tell himself that the bitch had deserved it, he knew better.  He’d ensured that his daughters would grow up without either a mother or a father, as well as ruining his career and the rest of his life.  He knew better than to think there was any future for him, outside Colchester.  A criminal record generally meant the end of any employment prospects, even if he could cope outside the military prison.  The unstructured world outside the stone walls might defeat him even if he did manage to find a job and rebuild his life.

It was hard, so hard, to find the motivation to swing his legs over the side and stand.  There was nothing to do, save for pacing the cramped cell and waiting for the redcaps to take him to class.  Colchester was hardly as unpleasant as some of the other high-security prisons, if the horror stories he’d heard were accurate, but it was boring.  The redcaps weren't openly sadistic, yet they were very careful.  They didn't even let him have books in his cell.  If he hadn't been used to military life, he suspected he would have gone mad by now.  But if he’d been a civilian, he would never have been sent to Colchester.  

And if I’d been a civilian, my wife would never have been alone, he thought, morbidly.  And she would never have cheated on me ...

He forced the memories back down as he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.  That was odd.  The redcaps were anal about sticking to their schedule, no matter what the inmates thought.  Perhaps something had happened to one of the other prisoners.  A young man who’d been sent down for a year had tried to hang himself in his cell a few months ago, somewhat to Alan’s surprise.  He certainly hadn't been able to figure out how the poor bastard had managed it.  It wasn't as if there were hooks on the ceiling.  The cells were as bare as a crewman’s cabin on a frigate.  

The footsteps stopped by his cell.  Something banged against the bars.  “Campbell,” a voice growled.  “On your feet.”

Alan looked up, surprised.  Perhaps he’d lost track of time ... no, it was 0930.  He wasn't due to be marched out of his cell for another thirty minutes.  There was certainly no reason for them to come early, as far as he knew.  Did they think he’d done something wrong?  It was hard to imagine what he could do, in Colchester.  The inmates were so carefully supervised that resistance was completely futile.

He stood, slowly.  Two men stood on the other side of the bars, wearing the black uniforms and red caps of the Royal Military Police.  They were seemingly unarmed, but he knew better than to believe that was true.  Besides, the redcaps were used to wrestling drunken squaddies and hunting down the occasional rogue SF operator.  Neither of them would have any difficulty flattening Alan, if he tried to put up a fight.  And all it would get him would be a week or two in a smaller cell.

“You have a visitor,” the lead redcap said.  He wore no nametag, none of them did.  The redcaps were completely interchangeable.  “Hands.”

Alan sighed and turned around, crossing his hands behind his back.  The redcap snapped on the cuffs, then fixed shackles around Alan’s ankles.  It was pointless, Alan had always thought, but it was procedure.  And yet ... he froze, just for a second, as the redcap’s words sank in.  A visitor?  Who’d come to Colchester to visit him?  His parents were dead, while his daughters were too young to visit the prison.  And their guardians probably wouldn't let them visit in any case.  Alan’s parents-in-law had never really liked him, even before he’d murdered their daughter.  They’d probably helped convince the poor bitch to cheat on him ...

You killed her, he reminded himself, sharply.  What exactly do you deserve?

He banished the thought as the redcaps opened the cell, one of them staying on the far side of the bars while the other entered.  Alan rolled his eyes as the man searched him quickly - it wasn't as if there was anything in the cell Alan could smuggle out - and then inched his way out of the cell.  It wasn't easy to walk in shackles, despite five years of practice.  And they weren't even necessary to keep him under control.

I suppose they don’t know that, he thought, bitterly.   I might turn violent at any moment.

The redcaps escorted him down the corridor, passing a handful of other long-term cells.  No one else was moving about, as far as Alan could tell.  Most of the other prisoners appeared to be trying to catch up on their sleep.  He had no idea who most of them were, let alone what they’d done to get themselves thrown into the military prison.  The prisoners simply weren't encouraged to socialise, even amongst themselves.  And even when they did talk, they rarely talked about their former lives.  No one wanted to think about the world outside the jail.

They passed through a pair of doors that could have passed for starship airlocks - so heavily armoured that he was sure they’d survive a direct nuclear strike - and walked down a wider corridor.  Another prisoner was coming in the other direction, a middle-aged woman wearing cuffs, shackles and an orange jumpsuit that obscured most of her figure.  Alan stared anyway, he couldn't help himself.  It had been years since he’d seen a woman.  It was unusual for a woman to be sent to Colchester, certainly into the long-term detention section.  He couldn't help wondering what the woman had done to merit it.

At least she’ll be safer here than in a civilian jail, he thought, as the woman and her guards walked past.  He’d heard horror stories about female prisons too.  The redcaps won’t treat her as a whore.

They stopped outside another door and waited, patiently.  The door hissed open slowly, revealing a barren room.  There were two chairs facing each other, both fixed to the floor, but nothing else.  One wall was dominated by a mirror, almost certainly a one-way mirror.  Alan stared at his reflection, wondering who was on the far side.  They certainly wouldn't be impressed by what they saw, he knew.  Five years in Colchester had taken their toll.  His blond hair was shaggy, his unshaven face utterly unkempt ... he was lucky, he supposed, that it wasn't worse.  But it could have been better too.

And Judith used to say I was handsome, he thought, with a trace of the old bitterness.  That didn't stop her opening her legs for the fucking neighbour.

The redcaps marched him over to the nearest chair, pushed him down and cuffed him to the legs.  Alan could barely move.  He glowered at the military policemen, who ignored him as they checked the cuffs and then withdrew from the chamber.  Alan scowled.  He might be alone, but he wasn't fool enough to believe that he wasn't under observation.  The entire prison was monitored 24/7.  There were probably pickups embedded in the ceiling.

Another door opened.  Alan looked up ... and stared.  A blonde woman stepped into the cell, wearing a baggy green jumpsuit that marked her as a visitor.  There was something severe about her face, but Alan found it hard to care.  Scrubbed clean of make-up, she was still the prettiest woman he’d seen in five years.  He told himself, sharply, not to think about it.  His visitor probably didn't consider him attractive.  Whatever she was here for had nothing whatsoever to do with sex.  

And it has to be important, if she came in person, Alan thought.  Everyone who visited Colchester was strip-searched before they were allowed to enter the prison.  It was why there were so few visitors.  What does she want?

The woman sat down, resting her hands on her knees.  “Commander Alan Campbell?”

“Yeah,” Alan said.  It would have been amusing if the redcaps had brought her the wrong person, but it was unlike them to make mistakes.  “And you?”

“Commander Liana Mountebank, Naval Legal Services,” Liana said.  She had a firm voice, almost completely devoid of emotion.  It was still the sweetest sound Alan had heard for years.  “I have a proposition for you.”

Alan bit down on a number of droll remarks and forced himself to think.  The Royal Navy’s lawyers were drawn from senior ranks, but it was difficult for them to reconcile a law degree with a full-time military career.  Chances were that Liana had been pushed into a naval career, then urged to take a law degree instead of serving on a starship ... he felt a flicker of contempt, mingled with droll amusement.  At least she’d had the sense to realise that she was better off in a support role.

“I see,” he said, finally.  Somehow, he doubted it was that kind of proposition.  “What do you want?”

Liana studied him for a long moment.  “You were born in Glasgow,” she said.  “You attended Park Bank Primary School, then Robert Burns Secondary School.  In your second year, you were expelled from Robert Burns after an ... incident ... and transferred to Kenilworth Borstal, where you spent the remainder of your schooling.  You attempted to join the Royal Navy at sixteen, but were told to wait two more years; you reapplied at eighteen and were accepted, after aptitude testing, into the starfighter training program.”

“I know all this,” Alan said, sharply.

Liana ignored him.  “You spent a year in the training program, after which you were assigned to Nelson Base’s defence squadrons for two years.  During that time, you met and married Judith Foster, who encouraged you to apply for mustang status when you started to age out of starfighter service.  You switched to command track, eventually rising to the point of Commander Air Group on HMS Formidable.  Your family grew too, with the birth of Jeanette and Alice.  You appeared to have a bright future ahead of you.

“And then you murdered your wife.”

“I know what I did,” Alan snapped.

“You came home early to discover your wife in bed with John Slater, a neighbour,” Liana said, remorselessly.  “You pitched Slater through the window, inflicting serious injuries, then proceeded to beat your wife to death.  The police were called and you were arrested, charged with murder, and eventually sentenced to ten years in Colchester.  So far, you have served five of those years.”

She paused.  “Why didn't you just file for divorce?”

Alan glared at her.  “Do we have to talk about it?”

“Yes.”

Alan paused, trying to control his temper.  He could have sought a divorce, on grounds of adultery.  The law would have been on his side, too.  He would have won custody of his daughters, while Judith would have been left with nothing but the stigma of cheating on a serving military officer.  The days when she could have walked away with two-thirds of his paycheck were long gone.  But ...

“I was angry,” he said.  “I ...”

He tried to put it into words, but failed.  He’d thought they’d had a partnership, that he could trust her not to betray him ... he’d come home early because he’d thought his wife would welcome him.  And then he’d caught her in bed with another man ... he didn't care, in the end, why she’d betrayed him.  All that mattered was that she had betrayed him.  He’d been so angry that he hadn't quite realised what he was doing until it was too late.

“The headshrinkers are fairly confident that you are unlikely to reoffend,” Liana said, when he’d finished.  “You would not have been kept here if they’d felt otherwise.”

Alan nodded, curtly.  A life sentence would have seen him transferred to the work camps in Antarctica, if he simply wasn't dumped on a penal colony or marched to the hangman’s office and unceremoniously hanged.  Ten years in Colchester had been remarkably merciful, under the circumstances.  But it was still a harsh punishment.

And you deserve it, he reminded himself.

“We have an offer for you,” Liana said.  “There is a war on.  The Royal Navy has a significant shortage of trained manpower.  If you ...”

Alan stared.  “A war?”

“A war,” Liana repeated.  “You’ll get a full briefing later, if you accept our offer.  Right now, all you need to know is that the navy is desperate for manpower.  If you are willing to return to service and serve for the duration of the conflict, we will cancel the rest of your sentence and scrub your record clean.”

“You can't be that desperate for manpower,” Alan said, carefully.  Hope warred with fear in his breast.  “There’s no shortage of recruits.”

“Which gives you some idea of just how serious the situation is,” Liana said.  She leaned forward, meeting his eyes.  “You won’t be going back to Formidable.  You’ll have another assignment.  I won't lie to you and tell you it’ll be a walk in the park, because it won’t be anything of the sort.  If you refuse to take on the post you’re offered, you will be returned to your cell and left to rot.”

Alan swallowed, hard.  Hope ... he’d had no hope, only two short hours ago.  And yet ...

He thought, fast.  The Royal Navy had never had a shortage of personnel.  It had been able to pick and choose recruits from a vast pool of applicants.  Hell, even crewmen who completed their short-term contracts and transferred to the merchant navy could be recalled to the colours if necessary.  For there to be a manpower shortage, the demands on the navy’s personnel had to be vast.  It would take time to expand the training program to turn weedy young groundpounders into qualified personnel ...

Time they may not have, Alan thought.  He’d seen some of the projections.  Modern wars were supposed to be short and sharp, brief exchanges of fire to establish positions before the diplomats got involved and sorted out the mess.  If the demand for manpower is so intense ...

He sighed, inwardly.  Liana was right.  He wouldn't be going back to Formidable.  The best he could hope for was ... was what?  Something dangerous, no doubt.  He was sure that he - and everyone else in Colchester - was considered expendable.  Perhaps they wanted to put him back in a starfighter cockpit.  It wasn't impossible, but it was unlikely.  Starfighter combat was a young man’s game.  The Admiralty would have to be really desperate before they put him in a cockpit again.

“You’ll scrub my record,” he said, slowly.  “What does that mean?”

Liana shrugged.  “Assuming you survive the war, you’ll be discharged from the navy and allowed to make your own way in life ... as if you hadn't killed your wife.  You’ll have at least a chance to build something for yourself, perhaps on an asteroid settlement.  Should you do anything criminal in the future, of course, the record will be de-scrubbed and you will spend the rest of your life in prison.  Does that answer your question?”

Alan nodded, slowly.  There was no point in pretending to think about it.  The prospect of being killed was bad, but staying in Colchester was worse.  He silently damned Liana for bringing him hope ... he could have endured the prison, perhaps, if there hadn't been any chance of early release.  But now ...

“I accept,” he said.  

His thoughts ran in circles.  Going back to space ... it was worth any danger.  The chance to sit down and eat a good meal, even navy rations ... he’d have to see if he could find a brothel.  Or an enthusiastic amateur.  A Royal Navy uniform drew attention from every woman in the room.  And yet ... he felt a stab of bitter guilt.  He’d never slept with anyone, after marrying Judith.  The thought of going to a brothel felt like betrayal ...

Sure, his thoughts mocked him.  And what was killing her, exactly?

“Very good,” Liana said.  She rose.  “The military police will arrange your transfer, along with anyone else who accepts the opportunity, to a base where you will receive a fuller briefing and your assignments.  I suggest you don’t waste this opportunity.  You will not receive another one.”

“I know,” Alan said.  It was an unwritten law that anyone who declined a promotion would simply never be given another one.  “Where are we going?”

“Classified, for the moment,” Liana said.  There was a hint of irritation in her voice.  “Like I said, you’ll get a briefing when you arrive.”

She turned and walked out of the chamber.  Alan was too distracted to follow her with his eyes.  A war, a chance to return to the uniform ... Liana was right.  It could not be wasted.  And yet ...

His blood ran cold as the implications dawned on him.  If they’re so desperate for manpower that they’re willing to recruit violent criminals, he thought, what the hell are we facing?

Chapter Three

“Aliens,” Abigail repeated.

“Nonsense,” Dawes said.  “This is a joke.  Some depraved sick arsehole in the Admiralty has dreamt up an exercise and ...”

“I’ll show you the sensor records in a moment,” Jameson said, coolly.  It was clear, just from his tone, that he’d had the same conversation before.  “Suffice it to say that, four weeks ago, the Vera Cruz colony was attacked by alien forces.  Several other outposts in that sector have gone quiet.  I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you what that means.”

Abigail nodded, slowly.  Four weeks ... the aliens might already be halfway to Earth.  The situation was serious, if it wasn’t some insane drill.  She didn't blame Dawes for being sceptical.  A hundred years of extra-solar expansion and colonisation had turned up no forms of life more intelligent than a dog.  Humanity was alone in the universe.  

We were alone in the universe, she thought.  It couldn't be a drill.  No matter the reasoning, no matter the compensation, a drill would have serious long-term effects on the relationship between merchant spacers and the navy.  Dawes wasn't wrong to worry about his cargo, even if everyone was compensated appropriately.  But right now cargo is the least of our worries.

Chester snorted.  “I’ve heard nothing about this,” he said.  “The news channels were silent.”

“There’s a total news blackout, for the moment,” Jameson said.  “We don’t expect that to last indefinitely, of course, but it gives us a chance to get organised before the public starts to panic.”

“True,” Abigail said.  In her experience, groundpounders were a panicky lot.  They knew nothing about science or technology or how it could be used to make life better.  “Let’s cut to the chase, Commodore.  Why did you summon us here?”

“All five of you are Royal Navy Reservists,” Jameson said, bluntly.  “And, perhaps more importantly at the moment, the Royal Navy financed the loans you used to purchase your ships.  You signed an agreement, when you accepted the loan, that your vessels would be placed at our disposal if a war emergency situation was declared.  It has been declared and yes, your ships are being requisitioned.”

Dawes choked.  “And my cargo?”

“We’ll try to have it forwarded to its final destination,” Jameson said, curtly.  “But right now, it is the least of our concerns.”

Abigail exchanged glances with Chester, thinking fast.  Legally, they didn't seem to have a leg to stand on, if they wanted to resist.  They had signed the papers, after all.  And even if they wanted to resist anyway, it wouldn't get them very far.  The Royal Marines could board a freighter and arrest the crew if they wished.  She felt a stab of pain, deep in her gut.  The ship was hers.  She didn't want to lose her.  And yet, she might have no choice.

“We captain freighters, not warships,” Chester said.  “Do you want us to haul military supplies?”

“No,” Jameson said.  “We want to convert your ships into escort carriers.”

Abigail stared.  “Are you joking?”

“No,” Jameson said.  He tapped the terminal, activating a holographic display.  A giant image of a Workhorse-class freighter appeared in front of them.  “The original specifications for the Workhorse included options to convert the freighters into escort carriers if necessary.  As you can see” - the diagram opened up to reveal the starship’s interior - “we’d strip out the main holds and replace them with modular components, everything from living quarters for a much larger crew to starfighter launching racks.  The life support system is already over-engineered, but we’d expand it anyway ...”

“Clever,” Dawes said, grudgingly.

“Thank you,” Jameson said.  He nodded to the diagram.  “We can't replace the drives without committing ourselves to a much longer refit, but we will be replacing the computer cores and supplying additional spare parts.  We’ll also be fitting close-in point defence weapons to the hull, along with their support systems.  It will not be the most elegant design, but it will work.”

I suppose that would appeal to someone who grew up in an asteroid community, Abigail thought, reluctantly.  She’d been taught to value function over form since she’d been old enough to play with her first construction kit.  Looking good took a second place to being practical and reliable.  And the ship is designed to take the modifications without a serious refit.

Chester cleared his throat.  “I assume you expect us to captain these ships?”

“Correct,” Jameson said.  “Unless you wish to surrender your command, in which case you will be transferred elsewhere.”

“Transferred,” Dawes repeated.  

Jameson’s voice hardened.  “You are a Royal Navy Reservist, Captain Dawes.  The price for the loan we gave you, ten years ago, was your ship and your service, should we have need of it.  Your commission has been reactivated - activated, I suppose - and you are called upon to serve your country.  And, I might add, the entire human race.  This is not a human foe.  We are facing aliens who probably can't tell the difference between a RockRat and a groundpounder.  We all look alike to them.”

Abigail couldn't help it.  She smiled.

“If you refuse to honour your obligations,” Jameson added, “your ship will be confiscated and you will be dispatched to prison.  I assure you that your joint citizenship will not save you.  Your government - both governments - are aware of the scale of the threat.  You could easily be painted as a traitor to the entire human race.”

He paused, just for a moment.  “I understand that this isn't easy for any of you,” he said, his eyes sweeping the room.  “Suffice it to say that every major government - including the Belt Federation - is in agreement that we have to prepare for war.  There should be no reason to be concerned about divided loyalties.  If you feel otherwise ... well, there are some reasonably comfortable places where you can be interned for the duration.”

“Thanks,” Chester said, dryly.

“And, assuming we survive, we will pay for your ships to be returned to their original state and do everything in our power to ensure that your reputations don’t suffer,” Jameson told them.  “I believe that most people in the Belt will recognise that you had no choice.”

“Hah,” Dawes said.

Abigail shrugged.  The Belters were remorselessly practical.  Better to prepare for the worst and hope for the best than vice versa.  It would be awkward if the war fizzled out after the diplomats started talking, but no one would blame her and her crew.  And besides, the Royal Navy could offer a number of incentives to get Haddock back on the shipping lanes.  A naval contract didn't offer much money, but it was fairly stable.  

She cleared her throat.  “What about our crews?”

“The ones who happen to be in the Naval Reserve will have their contracts reactivated at the same times as yourselves,” Jameson said.  “We will expect them to continue serving with you, unless their services are required elsewhere.  The others may leave your ships, if they wish; they can transfer to other freighters or simply return to their homes for the duration of the conflict.”

Abigail made a face.  The Belters would not be impressed by any of her crew who left the ship, not when they were being called upon to serve.  She’d have to find a way to dismiss anyone who didn't want to serve, something that wouldn't be easy without blackening their reputations in other ways.  The Belters didn't indulge in tasteless displays of patriotism, unlike so many groundpounder nations, but they understood duty and responsibility ... and cared little for those who shirked when the call came.  

“So, you expect us to take our ships into combat,” Dawes said.  “How?”

“We expect you to escort convoys,” Jameson said.  “Right now, we have no other plan for your deployment.  If that changes - when that changes - we’ll let you know.”

“I have two crewmen from China,” Captain Hawke said.  “What about them?”

“They can stay or go, as they wish,” Jameson said.  “The Chinese are preparing for war too.”

“I see,” Hawke said.

Chester leaned forward.  “I have another question,” he said.  “Are you planning to assign military personnel to our ships?  In which case, who’s in charge?”

“You will be in command of your ships,” Jameson said, reassuringly.  “There will be a military officer serving as your XO, but you will be in command.”

Abigail wasn't so sure.  She understood ship handling, but she’d never served on a carrier or commanded starfighters.  It probably wasn't anything like flying shuttles.  And if there were enough military personnel on the ship, the XO could take over at any moment ... she shook her head, telling herself that she was being paranoid.  She was a reservist, as little as she might like to remember it.  

Dawes frowned.  “What’s the catch?”

Jameson looked back at him.  “The catch?”

“You’re being very reasonable,” Dawes said.  “Something must be wrong.”

“Good point,” Hawke agreed.

“We do need to get you and your ships ready for deployment as fast as possible,” Jameson pointed out.  He sighed.  “But yeah, there is a problem.”

He took a long breath.  “We are very short of manpower right now,” he said.  “Our pool of trained officers and crewmen - even reservists - simply isn't big enough to meet all our requirements.  We can - and we will - offer battlefield commissions to civilian crewers, on the understanding that their ranks won’t last past the end of the war, but even that isn't enough to fill every billet that needs filling.  Even dropping some of the training requirements isn't going to be enough.”

Abigail made a face.  She’d heard enough about the Royal Navy’s training to know it was far from perfect, but random cuts weren't going to make matters better.  She’d met too many senior officers to have any confidence that they were going to make effective cuts.  They’d probably cut half the zero-g training, but keep Saluting 101.  A sloppy salute might be indicative of a sloppy mind - or so she’d heard - yet she couldn't help regarding airlock training and weapons handling as far more important.  

“Go on,” Chester said.

“We’re going to be drawing prisoners from various holding centres, if they have the right qualifications,” Jameson said.  “I ...”

Abigail felt a hot flash of anger.  “Out of the question,” she said.  “Do you think I’ll allow a convicted criminal on my ship?”

Dawes nodded in agreement.  “Did your planners watch The Dirty Dozen before coming up with this concept?”

Jameson rubbed his forehead.  “Let me finish,” he said.  “First, we will not be making these offers to men we feel are likely to reoffend.  No serial killers, no paedophiles ... the handful that escaped being sentenced to death will not be released from prison until they die.  The people we have selected are not people who pose a permanent danger.”

“You can’t be sure of that,” Dawes muttered.

“The reoffending rate is actually quite low,” Jameson pointed out.  “In any case, like I said, we are desperate for manpower.”

“Desperate enough to overlook ... what?”  Abigail asked.  “Murder?  Arson?  Or jaywalking?”

“You’ll be given their files, assuming that they’re assigned to your ship,” Jameson said, bluntly.  “I shouldn't have to warn you that such files are highly classified.  You are not to share details with anyone, unless you are prepared to explain yourself to a court-martial board.”

“It seems you expect us to take a risk,” Chester observed.

“If it was entirely up to me,” Jameson said, “there wouldn't be any war.  And there would be no need to turn your ships into escort carriers.  And there would be no need to look at every possible source of manpower.  But it isn't up to me.”

He looked from face to face.  “You took our money so you could buy and operate your freighters.  Right now, we’re calling in the loan.  You are under military authority and that means following orders.  If you are unable or unwilling to accept the current state of affairs, you can leave - now - and we’ll give your ships to someone else.  We know this isn't easy and we wouldn't be considering it if the situation wasn't desperate.

“We don't believe that any of the prospective candidates pose a serious risk.  If that changes, our approach will change too.”

“So put up and shut up,” Chester said.

“Or fuck off,” Dawes added.

Abigail scowled, inwardly.  She was aware, all too aware, that people made mistakes.  She’d grown up in a society where people were publicly whipped for minor errors and completely ostracised for major mistakes.  It had always struck her as severe, until she’d come to understand just how much depended on people not making mistakes.  The lives of everyone on an asteroid depended on a complete lack of mistakes.  

But people don’t go to groundpounder jail for minor mistakes, she thought.  Groundpounders were rather more forgiving than RockRats.  Whatever they did had to be serious.

She closed her eyes for a long moment.  There was no point in trying to argue, not when she had signed the contract.  And there was no way she was abandoning her ship and crew.  She loved the old freighter more than she loved her husbands and wives ...

And if any of the criminals step out of line, she told herself firmly, there will be an unfortunate accident.

She nodded to herself.  Groundpounders and RockRats might disagree on what constituted a dangerous and irredeemable criminal, but they both agreed that certain kinds of people could never be let free.  The simple fact that the criminals hadn't been executed suggested that the judge and jury had believed there was no reasonable possibility of reoffending.  And yet ... no one would blame her if she executed a criminal who misbehaved on her ship.  It was technically within her authority, even as a civilian.  She was damned if she was allowing anyone a second or third chance.

Jameson cleared his throat.  “Are there any other points you wish to raise?”

Abigail nodded.  “How long do you expect the conversions to take?”

“Roughly two weeks,” Jameson said.  “The modular components have already been transported here, along with additional dockyard workers.  We’ve already done one conversion, so most of the kinks in the system should be worked out by now.  There’s no guarantee, of course, that we will meet our deadline.  We’re planning on the assumption that the schedule will slip at some point.”

“How reassuring,” Chester said.  

“True,” Abigail said.  Refitting a giant freighter wouldn't be easy, even if they didn't run into any major problems.  Two weeks might be ludicrously optimistic.  “At least we can't be blamed for any delays.”

“Or strikes in the dockyard,” Dawes added.

“There is a war on,” Jameson said.  “All strikes have been suspended for the duration.”

You mean, anyone who strikes will be arrested, Abigail thought.  Industrial action was rare in space - there were more jobs than there were trained workers - but it had been known to happen.  And yet, if a state of emergency had been declared, any strikers would be arrested ... and then what?  Put back to work?  We couldn't arrest everyone without shooting ourselves in the foot.

“I’ll make sure you have copies of all the files,” Jameson said.  “I should add, again, that all of these files are classified.  You are not to share them with anyone.  Indeed, we are under complete radio silence.  You are not to contact anyone without sending the message through the censors here.”

“Because you don’t want to tell the little people that Armageddon is approaching,” Dawes muttered.

“We don’t want a panic,” Jameson said.  “The news will be released soon, I believe, once the first wave of preparations has been completed.  That should convince the public that we know what we’re doing.”

Abigail snorted.  “How can that possibly be true?  We’ve encountered aliens.  Even if the war comes to an end tomorrow, nothing is ever going to be the same.  We’re just pretending that everything is normal because we don’t know what will change when we admit that everything is no longer normal!”

“That’s somewhat above my pay grade,” Jameson said.  He shrugged.  “Yeah, I admit there are philosophical implications here.  Contact with an alien race, us no longer being alone ... yes, there is much to consider.  But right now, our real concern is that the aliens are not remotely friendly.  They attacked us, not the other way around.  Preparing for war is more important than trying to make contact with them.”

“Maybe they’re too alien to understand us,” Hawke mused.  “We humans have problems talking to each other when we come from different cultures.  The gulf between us and the aliens must be far wider than the gulf between spacers and groundpounders.”

Abigail nodded.  There were things - spacer things - that no groundpounder would ever understand.  They might claim to understand intellectually, but emotionally?  They simply didn't understand.  It was impossible to discuss such matters because the groundpounders refused to accept them.

“Or maybe they’re just nasty bastards,” Dawes said.  “How many historical humans can claim to be nasty bastards?  Genghis Khan?  Napoleon?  Hitler?  Bin Laden?  Sir Charles Hanover?  Chairman Shan?  It’s not like they needed excuses to be bastards.”

“There are people who will find humanity even in Hitler,” Hawke said.

“Which goes to prove that a great many people are idiots,” Dawes said.  “What excuse do our new enemies have for being nasty bastards?”

“I dare say we’ll find out,” Jameson said.  He smiled, humourlessly.  “If any of you want to leave your ships now, say so.  If not ... we’ll start the refitting as soon as possible.”

Abigail sighed.  “I don't think any of us want to leave our ships.”

And if any of the criminals act up, she added mentally, I’ll put him out the airlock first and worry about coming up with a story later.

Chapter Four

“All right, everyone out,” a voice barked.  “Move it!”

Alan jerked awake.  He’d tried to stay awake, when they’d been marched out of their cells and into the bus, but the vehicle’s steady motion had lulled him into sleep.  It hadn't helped that the windows had been tinted, making it impossible for him to see outside.  He thought they’d been driving for around three hours, but it was impossible to be sure.  They could be anywhere in England by now.

He staggered to his feet, joining the others as they stumbled towards the door and piled out onto the tarmac.  They were on a military base, all right; there was no mistaking the bland buildings, the ugly signs on the walls and the guards, standing by the fence.  It looked as though the base had been hastily reactivated, he decided as he looked around.  The fence didn't look very secure, he thought.  Normally, a military base would look like a garrison in a hostile city.

Which isn't really a good thing, he thought.  But too many bases were attacked during the Troubles.

“Proceed into the first building,” a redcap barked, as pre-packed overnight bags were handed out.  Unusually for a redcap, he wore rank insignia.  A colonel, apparently.  “Take one of the shower cubicles and wash thoroughly, then dress and make your way down to the mess.  Do not delay.”

Alan shrugged as he walked into the building and found a private shower room.  It was tiny, no larger than a washroom on a starship, but it was private.  He undressed, turned on the water and stepped under the flow.  It felt heavenly.  He ran his fingers through his hair, wishing he’d had a chance to have it cut properly, then rubbed shaving gel on his cheeks to remove the stubble.  The water washed the bristles away without hesitation.  He wanted to linger - a long shower seemed the height of luxury after prison - but he knew better than to delay too long.  Turning off the water, he dried himself and changed into his new uniform.  It had no rank insignia, nothing to suggest his assignment or status, but it was still far superior to prison jumpsuits.  

He stepped outside and stopped in front of a mirror.  The blue uniform looked good on his pale skin, matching his blue eyes.  He looked like a new recruit, save for his unkempt hair and obvious age.  The dark lines around his eyes proved he was in his thirties, at the very least.  Alan studied himself, then sighed.  Colchester had probably made him look at least ten years older.  It would be a long time before he managed to get himself back in shape.

You have a reason to stay in shape now, he told himself, firmly.  There would be an exercise room on the base, somewhere.  He’d have to go regularly, at least until he received his assignment.  You need to be fit for what’s coming.

He made his way down the stairs and into the underground mess.  It looked as if it had been designed for over five hundred soldiers, not forty men and three women.  Everyone was a little spread out, eying each other - and the guards - with some concern.  Alan shrugged as he walked over to the counter, where the cook splashed sausages, potatoes and beans on a military-issue plate.  The food might be disgusting, by civilian standards, but it was better than Colchester’s.  And it looked as though there was plenty of it.

Sitting down, he allowed his eyes to roam the room as he ate.  He recognised a handful of the men from Colchester, but the remainder were strangers to him.  The women were complete unknowns ... had they come from Colchester too?  Or had they been brought from another prison?  It was hardly unknown for female convicts to be transferred to a civilian prison, after sentence had been passed.  Maybe someone had decided to spare them Colchester.  If so, they'd done the women no favours.  Colchester was harsh, but there were worse places to be.

“There are books and other entertainments in the next room,” a redcap boomed, pointing towards a far door.  “When your name is called, walk into the interview room and sit down.”

Alan rolled his eyes as he finished his second helping, then walked into the next room.  It was a small library, complete with row upon row of paper books and a handful of computer terminals.  A quick check told him that the computers weren't linked to the datanet, unsurprisingly.  It didn't look as though they were linked to MILNET either.  He supposed that wasn't a surprise.  The base looked old enough to predate the Troubles.  Maybe it had been an internment centre rather than a real base.

A young man winked at him.  “There are pretty-looking chicks in there,” he stage-whispered, mischievously.  “You want to ask one of them to fuck?”

Alan shook his head, curtly.  They were being watched.  The chains might have been loosened - they hadn't been cuffed and shackled for the journey - but he would be surprised if every last inch of the base wasn't under constant observation.  And besides, the redcaps were a constant presence.  Any misbehaviour would just get him shipped back to Colchester to serve the rest of his sentence.  

He pulled a book from the shelf - the latest in a series he vaguely recalled reading before he’d been sentenced to spend ten years behind bars - and sat down to read.  The author had started well - he’d captured the life of a space marine quite accurately - but he'd clearly gone downhill over the last five years.  This book was nothing more than a hodgepodge of plotlines that didn't quite blend together and sex scenes that would probably result in physical injury if someone tried them in real life.  By the time his name was called and he walked into the interview room, it was something of a relief.

“Commander Campbell,” a young man said.  “Thank you for coming.”

Alan sat down, studying the younger man closely.  He wore a plain blue uniform, without any rank insignia or nametag.  Intelligence, perhaps?  In Alan’s experience, REMFs tended to wear the fanciest uniforms they could get away with, at least in public.  They hated it when anyone questioned their right to wear the uniform, or when someone addressed them by the wrong rank.  Or maybe he was a naval reservist who hadn't been allowed to return to his former rank.  There was no way to know.

“You’re welcome,” Alan said, finally.  He reminded himself, sharply, to behave.  This young man could probably wreck his sole hope of getting out of jail with a word in the right - or wrong - set of ears.  “What can I do for you?”

“I have a file for you,” the young man said.  He passed Alan a paper file.  “Read it.”

Alan frowned, then opened the file.  The first page was a summary; short, informative and completely unbelievable.  Aliens?  There was no such thing as aliens.  Everyone knew there was no such thing as aliens.  Every stray signal that humanity had detected, every vague sensor contact ... all of them had, eventually, been proven to have a natural explanation, one stripped of all wonder and terror.  Aliens didn't exist ...

... And yet, no one would recruit convicted criminals from Colchester unless they were desperate.

She mentioned a manpower shortage, Alan thought, weakly.  His mouth was suddenly very dry.  The nation is gearing up for war.

He looked up.  “This is real?”

“Yes,” the young man said, flatly.  “Keep reading.”

Alan read through the next few pages, torn between disbelief and outright shock.  Aliens ... hostile aliens.  It couldn't be happening, could it?  And yet, it was.  He had no doubt that aliens would choose to wage war on humanity, if they thought they could win.  The galaxy might not be big enough for two intelligent races.  Perhaps the aliens thought they had exhausted their tramlines and now they were moving into the human sphere.  Or ... he shrugged.  It didn't really matter.  All that mattered was that there was a war on.

“There isn’t anything here about their technology,” he mused, slowly.  “Was something redacted from the report?”

“Very little is known about their technology,” the young man said.  His voice was very calm, but there was an undercurrent of concern, perhaps even fear.  “We know they must be capable of using the tramlines, as they’re clearly not native to Vera Cruz, and they apparently do have something akin to our drive system, but beyond that?  We know nothing.”

And it must cost you to say that, Alan thought.  Intelligence officers, in his experience, liked to pretend to be omniscient.  It was a rare officer who realised, let alone admitted, the limits of his knowledge.  And yet ... he frowned.  If we know nothing about their technology, we have no way of knowing how our weapons and defences stack up against theirs.

He flipped through the report, trying to get the high points.  The first contact - the first reported contact - had been nearly a month ago.  He concentrated, trying to recall the starcharts he’d seen before being imprisoned.  The aliens might well be a great deal closer to Earth by now.  Or they might be feeling their way along the tramlines, as unaware of the interior disposition of human space as humanity was unaware of theirs.  Unless they’d captured a database from Vera Cruz.  The civilians might not have thought to destroy their libraries before they were overwhelmed.

They might know everything, or nothing, or somewhere in-between, he thought.  And the only thing we really know about them is that they’re hostile.

“I see,” he said, finally.  Aliens.  He could cope with aliens.  “What - exactly - do you want from me?”

“We are currently putting together crews for escort carriers,” the young man said.  “You are qualified to serve in a role that is a cross between CAG and XO.  If you choose to accept it, you will be shipped out in the next couple of days to your new home.  If you refuse ...”

He left the rest of the sentence unspoken.  But Alan could guess.  It was possible - even probable - that the Royal Navy would have another role for him.  And yet ... the navy might also think that he’d had his chance and blown it.  He could be put back on the bus and sent straight back to Colchester.  There was no way to be sure.

An escort carrier, he told himself.  It wouldn't be that bad, surely.

“Very well,” he said.  “I accept.”

The young man nodded, curtly.  “Very good,” he said.  He tapped his wristcom.  “Officer Bennett, please join us.”

Alan’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.  Officer?  That was odd ... a redcap rank?  Or an intelligence officer?  No, intelligence wankers normally used naval ranks in the hopes civilians wouldn't pay too much attention to them.  If half the stories Alan had heard were true, intelligence officers spent a fair percentage of their time pretending to do nothing more important than ordering paperclips and stapling documents.   An officer would be ...

The door opened.  Alan turned, just in time to see a grim-faced man step into the room.  He was short, but surprisingly muscular, his dark hair topping a face that had clearly taken one too many beatings over the past few years.  Alan met his dark eyes, fighting the urge to recoil.  The sense of violence - of threat - was almost overwhelming.  He wanted to step back, yet he knew that showing weakness would be the worst possible thing he could do.

“Thank you,” Bennett said, curtly.  He had a London accent, one that spoke of growing up in the East End.  “Campbell.  Come with me.”

Alan rose and followed Bennett through the door, down a corridor and through a guarded gate into a small conference room.  Bennett moved with absolute confidence, the kind of movement that suggested he knew no one would dare block his way.  Alan watched his back, silently evaluating.  Bennett would have grown up honing his talent for violence on the streets, then trained to use it in the service of his country.  Whatever else could be said about Bennett, he was clearly a very dangerous man.

“You make me sick,” Bennett said, closing and locking the door.  “You killed your wife.”

He moved forward with lightning speed.  Before Alan could react, he was pinned against the wall.  Resistance was futile.  Bennett was pure muscle, stronger than anyone Alan had ever faced ... even on the streets of Glasgow.  And he was clearly very well trained, utterly disciplined ...

“I’m your supervisor,” Bennett said, after a moment.  His voice grew louder.  “Your job is to serve your country.  My job is to make damn sure you behave yourself.  Fuck around onboard ship and I’ll fucking toss your fucking arse out of the fucking airlock.  You will not get another fucking chance to do anything.  Get me?”

Alan gritted his teeth.  “Yeah.”

“If it was up to me, you’d fucking rot in Colchester,” Bennett snarled.  “The thought of hurting my wife - of killing my wife - God!  You make me sick!”

He leaned closer, so close that Alan could smell ... something ... on his breath.  “As far as everyone else is concerned, I’m your assistant, your batman, your gofer, your security adviser ... whatever you want me to be.  But don’t ever forget that my real job is to keep an eye on you.  I will not let you do anything stupid.  Get me?”

“Yes,” Alan said.  “I'm not going to fuck it up.”

“Really,” Bennett said, doubtfully.  “Do you know how many men fuck up their second chance?”

He let go of Alan and stepped back.  “They say you and the other fuckers are necessary,” he said, walking around the table and picking up a paper file.  “And they say you won’t re-offend.  But personally I have my doubts.  You’re not some idiot who had a wee bit too much to drink and ended up mooning the Sergeant Major.  You brutally beat a woman to death and seriously injured a grown man.”

Alan straightened his collar.  “She cheated on me.”

Bennett glared.  “I’m not here to listen to your excuses,” he said.  His accent grew stronger, harsher.  “My dad beat my mother until I was old enough to stop him.  Not little smacks either, proper blows that left her bruised and bloodied and broken.  That bastard would beat her senseless for even looking at another man.  What makes you think I’ll take any of your excuses seriously?”

He shoved the file towards Alan.  “Read this,” he growled.  “Once you’re done, I’ll take you to your room.  You may no longer be a formal prisoner, but you are not to leave your room without permission unless the base is on fire.  Do not attempt to speak to anyone, apart from myself.  Got it?”

“I thought I was getting a pardon,” Alan said.

“You’re getting your record scrubbed, after the war ends,” Bennett said.  “You are not - yet - forgiven.  And as far as I am concerned, you will never be forgiven.”

“You’re very kind,” Alan murmured.

Bennett eyed him narrowly, then sat down.  “Read the file,” he ordered.  “And then I’ll take you to your room.”

Alan nodded, curtly.  He supposed he shouldn't have been too surprised at being supervised, although there was no reasonable prospect of escape.  Even if he got past Bennett and over the fence, the prisoner’s implant in his arm would lead the redcaps straight to him.  He’d be arrested, dragged back to Colchester and thrown into a cell.  And then they’d throw away the key.

Unless they decide to hang me instead, Alan thought.  If there really is a war on, they might not want to waste time and effort supervising the prisoners.

He opened the file and read through it, carefully.  Someone had done good work.  Alan was no engineer, but he knew enough to be confident that the original designer was right and the Workhorse-class freighters could be converted into escort carriers.  A set of supplementary notes detailed what had happened during the first conversion, with short outlines of small problems and suggestions for avoiding them in future.  None of the issues were particularly bad, with the exception of a small problem with the fusion plant.  The engineers had solved that problem by adding a second plant and a number of military-grade power cells.  Expensive, admittedly, but workable.

Not enough to keep the ship going indefinitely, but enough to keep us alive long enough to fix the damage, Alan thought, although he had few illusions.  A single direct hit would probably be enough to put the escort carrier out of commission - and a nuclear strike would vaporise the vessel.  Damage control was going to be an absolute nightmare.  We’re not going to be in the line of battle, I hope.

He studied the designs, carefully.  The Workhorses did have plenty of interior space, although they were small compared to a full-scale fleet carrier.  There certainly should be room for an entire crew, although they were going to be cramped.  It couldn't be helped.  Besides, anyone who served in the navy would be used to cramped quarters, poor food and a complete lack of privacy.

Just like being in jail, Alan thought, wryly.  Except the food isn't much better.

Bennett cleared his throat.  “Well?”

“It looks workable,” Alan said.  “I’d have to see the carrier itself, of course, but ...”

“I’m sure that the First Space Lord is just dying to hear your opinion,” Bennett said, cutting Alan off.  His voice dripped sarcasm.  He rose, holding out his hand for the file.  “Shall we go?”

Alan shrugged.  It wasn't as if he had a choice.

“Sure,” he said.  “Why not?”

Chapter Five

“You have got to be joking,” Chief Rating Steven Phelps said.

“I’m afraid not, Steven,” Abigail said.  She didn't blame him for being unconvinced.  She wasn't quite convinced herself.  “This is not a joke.”

She took a long breath as her eyes swept the forward hold.  It was the largest space on the ship, now the other holds were crammed with cargo; the only space large enough for her to gather the entire crew.  Fifteen men and women ... tiny, compared to a military crew, but very close-knit.  The thought of breaking up the core of her crew hurt, even though she knew that some of the younger crewmen were already planning to jump ship.  She couldn't really blame them, either.  There were few opportunities for advancement on Haddock.

“I’ve been given copies of the briefing notes, which you can review at leisure, but the important details - right now - are as follows.”  Abigail paused, allowing them a moment to process her words.  “Aliens have arrived - and attacked.  Our ship has been requisitioned for conversion into a makeshift carrier, with us expected to serve as the crew.  Any of you who aren’t reservists and don’t want to stay on the ship can leave now, if you wish.  Changing your mind later will get you into trouble.”

“I don’t know anything about serving in the military,” Fatima Roberson said.  The cook leaned forward, one hand playing with a long strand of dark hair.  “Is there anyone here who does?”

“I was in the Royal Navy before transferring out,” Vassilios Drakopoulos said.  The Chief Engineer looked grim.  “It is very different to the merchant service, I’m afraid.  But given that we’ll be running the ship, I don’t think our experience will be quite as bad.”

Abigail gave him a sharp look.  “Are you staying?”

“You’d only get into trouble without me,” Drakopoulos said, deadpan.  “Besides, I suspect I’ll be called back to the colours whatever happens, if the situation is as bad as they appear to believe.  Pulling freighters out of the shipping lanes isn't something they’d do unless they felt the situation was desperate.”

“But the situation can't be that bad,” Anson said.  “The news broadcasts aren't talking about aliens, are they?”

“Not yet,” Abigail confirmed.  “That will change.”

“And that means the contacts haven’t been that significant,” Anson added.  “For all we know, this is a border squabble.”

“Or the start of a full-scale invasion,” Drakopoulos said, quietly.  “Or even a probe intended to gauge our response before the main fleet is dispatched.”

“And First Contact was a month ago,” Poddy put in.  “A lot can happen in a month.”

Abigail tapped her foot on the hard metal deck.  “The situation isn't up for debate,” she said, firmly.  “We - I - signed a contract, so I am now obliged to offer my ship and my services to the Royal Navy.  I won’t say I’m happy about this because I’m not, but we don’t have a choice.”

She made a show of looking at her watch.  “The preliminary refit crews are meant to be boarding at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow.  If you don’t want to stay with the ship, let me know before then and I’ll arrange for your transfer to Tallyman.  I expect you’ll go into lockdown unless you have skills the Royal Navy desperately needs, at least until the news breaks and there’s no longer any need to keep it under wraps.  Everyone else ... make sure you get as much sleep as you can.  I imagine tomorrow is going to be a very busy day.”

“No doubt,” Phelps said.  “We’re going to have to empty the holds before we start pulling out the modules and replacing them.”

Farris Ashburn cleared his throat.  “We have a signed and sealed contract to deliver our cargo to Ceres,” he said.  “If we don’t get it there by the end of the week, Captain, they’ll invoke the penalty clauses.”

“If we’re lucky, the cargo pallets will be delivered to Ceres by the navy,” Abigail said.  She rather doubted they’d be that lucky.  The Royal Navy wouldn't intend to screw her and her crew, but her cargo would be far down the priority list.  “And, if we’re unlucky, the Royal Navy has agreed to compensate us for the loss.”

“Assuming there’s an Earth left afterwards,” Drakopoulos said.  “Or a Royal Navy.”

Abigail shot him a warning look.  “The navy has sent us the refit specs,” she said.  “Study them now, then inform me if there are any problems we need to account for before the refit begins.  You’ll be supervising the process from start to finish.”

“Will do,” Drakopoulos said.  

Ashburn snorted.  “Do you trust the navy?”

“I expect that compensation will be paid, eventually,” Abigail said.  She understood his problem, but there was no point in going on and on about it.  “And as we don’t have any choice in the matter, all we can do is put our faith in them.”

She looked around the compartment.  “Anson, Poddy, stay with me,” she ordered.  “Everyone else, let me know if you want to leave the ship.”

Anson waited until everyone else had left the compartment, then swung around to face Abigail.  “Mum ... Poddy can’t stay.”

“I’m staying,” Poddy said, sharply.  “Mum ...”

“She’s far too young to see combat,” Anson said.  “The youngest crewman in the Royal Navy will be at least eighteen ...”

“We are born into danger,” Poddy quoted.  “We only leave it when we die.”

“She’s a child,” Anson said.  “Mum, Poddy should be removed ...”

“I will not,” Poddy snapped.  “Mum ...”

Abigail rubbed her forehead.  There were times when she thought that allowing her children to serve under her command was a bad idea, even if it did give her a chance to make sure they had the proper skills before they served under a captain who would be less tolerant of mistakes.  If nothing else, Anson and Poddy could make emotional demands on her, something the rest of the crew couldn't do.  And yet, she understood Anson’s concern.

She sighed, inwardly.  On one hand, Anson was right.  Poddy was young, far too young to see combat.  Every motherly instinct in Abigail’s mind demanded that she send her daughter away, even if it meant souring their relationship.  Poddy would hate her, but at least Poddy would be alive to hate her.  But on the other hand, her upbringing in an asteroid settlement had taught her that danger couldn't be avoided.  Poddy couldn't be wrapped in cotton wool and preserved, let alone protected against every conceivable threat.   Abigail had met too many spoilt brats from Earth, girls and boys who’d grown up in a sheltered environment, to want to smother her daughter.  There were some things Poddy could only learn from experience.

Which doesn't make taking her into danger any easier, Abigail acknowledged.  And she really is too young to serve on a naval vessel.

“You haven’t even lived alone,” Anson was saying.  “You don’t know the universe like I do ...”

“You elderly man,” Poddy mocked.  “Let me fetch your slippers, then you can have a nice sit down by the fire while I make you a cup of hot milk.”

“Shut up, the pair of you,” Abigail snapped.  It was good, she supposed, that Anson cared about his sister.  And it was also good that Poddy was confident enough to push back when she felt her brother was being overprotective.  But it gave her a headache.  “Anson, Poddy, pay attention.”

She waited for them to fall silent, considering her next words carefully.  “First, neither of you have any obligation to stay with the ship,” she said.  “You’re not reservists and your shipping contracts don’t include military service.  I won’t complain if either or both of you want to jump ship now.  That said ...”

Anson opened his mouth.  Abigail spoke over him.

“That said, we will be flying into danger ... probably.  We don’t know anything about the aliens, beyond the mere fact of their existence and apparent hostility.  There has always been a certain level of danger, of risk, but this will be worse.  And there will be strangers on the ship.  Some of them will not be quite so tolerant of your behaviour.”

Anson and Poddy exchanged glances.  Anson spoke first.  “What’s wrong with our behaviour?”

“You’re arguing with me now, for one,” Abigail said, dryly.  She was happy to discuss her decisions with her children - as long as they had privacy - but a naval officer wouldn't feel quite the same way.  “And I could point to quite a few others.”

She looked from one to the other.  “Like it or not, you are both members of my crew,” she added.  “And I won’t toss you off the ship if you don’t want to go.  However” - she held up a hand to keep them from interrupting - “there will be risks, some necessary and some ... rather less necessary.  If you want to leave the ship, I won’t hold it against you.  Either of you.”

“Poddy is a child,” Anson protested.

“I’m fifteen,” Poddy countered.  “I’ll be sixteen in four months ...”

Abigail sighed.  Poddy’s physical age didn't matter, as far as the RockRats and the Belter Community were concerned.  What mattered was her mental maturity and her ability to actually do her job.  Abigail herself had shipped out when she was twelve, serving under her paternal uncle.  The old man had kept a sharp eye on her, but he’d also let her make a number of mistakes that had become learning experiences.  It hadn't been until she became a mother herself that she’d truly understood just how much her uncle had done for her.

But Poddy isn't old enough to go to the Naval Academy, Abigail reminded herself.  The groundpounders won’t understand.

She pushed the thought aside.  “Poddy has the skills and qualifications to serve on this ship, if she wishes,” she said, flatly.  “I do understand your concerns, but ... it has to be her choice.”

Anson scowled darkly, but he knew better than to argue with his mother once her mind was made up.  He understood the chain of command ... and that his mother wouldn't tolerate open insubordination.  Abigail didn't expect him to be happy with it, just as he hadn't been happy with some of her other decisions.  But she did expect him to obey - or leave the ship, if he couldn't obey.  It wasn't as if he’d be leaving under a cloud.

“I’m staying,” Poddy said.  

“Me too,” Anson said.  He smiled, suddenly.  “Will we have to salute you?”

“Probably,” Abigail said.  “And you’ll have to be reasonably respectful to the military officers.”

“Perhaps we’ll get Stellar Star,” Anson said.  “Or ...”

“Stellar Star doesn't exist,” Poddy said, in a long-suffering tone.  “And nor do those green-skinned babes from that movie you wouldn't let me watch ...”

Anson coloured.  “Man Jack doesn't exist either,” he snapped.  “That didn't stop you from covering your cabin with pictures of him!”

“Quiet,” Abigail said.  “Go back to your cabins and get some sleep.  I’ll see you both in the morning.”

“I’m on watch,” Anson said.  He yawned, suddenly.  “Aren’t I?”

“I’ll take the first watch,” Abigail said.  Anson should have been sleeping for the last few hours, just so he’d be refreshed for his watch.  But she’d slept instead.  “Steven or Carl can take the second.”

“Unless they decide to jump ship,” Anson said.  “Mum ... not everyone is going to be happy, serving under the military.”

“I suppose not,” Abigail said.  Two of her crewers had ties to various belter independence movements.  It wasn't the sort of thing that would impress the military, if they cared enough to vet the freighter’s crew.  But even if they did, it was unlikely they’d turn up anything incriminating.  “And, like I keep saying, we don’t have a choice.”

She dismissed them, then walked slowly back to the bridge.  Her ship felt odd, even though nothing had changed.  Yet, she reminded herself.  Tomorrow, they’d remove the cargo pallets and then start refitting the vessel.  And then she’d be commander of a light carrier instead of a freighter.

And I’ll have a target painted on my arse, she thought, as she stepped onto the bridge.  It isn't as if they’re going to tear out the drive and replace it with something that can actually turn on a dime.

Carl Rogers looked up, then nodded to the status board.  Everything was green.  Abigail dismissed him with a nod, picking up her datapad as he left the compartment.  There were a handful of messages waiting in her inbox, including a pair of agitated demands from her client for an updated ETA.  She cursed under her breath as she read the second message, knowing she couldn't reply.  Her name was going to be mud in shipping circles, if the Royal Navy refused to allow her to explain what had actually happened.  By the time the truth came out, her client would have slandered her to the entire community.

And he’ll be convinced he’s doing the right thing, Abigail told herself, crossly.  The Belt practically ran on reputation.  No one would care if someone uploaded nude photographs or videos of her to the datanet, but breaking a contract ...?  She’d be shunned and abhorred by all right-thinking Belters.   And the hell of it is that he’ll have a point.

She considered her options for a long moment, then dismissed it.  There was no point in worrying about something outside her control.  Either the news broke before the client could start smearing her or it didn’t.  If the former, she could explain; if the latter, she could put forward a convincing case to regain her reputation.  It would just be tricky to avoid hammering an understandably-outraged client in the court of public opinion.  

The hatch opened.  Farris Ashburn stepped onto the bridge.

“It’s late,” Abigail said.  “You should be sleeping.”

“I wanted to tell you in person,” Ashburn said.  He looked ashamed.  “I’m jumping ship.”

Abigail looked him up and down.  He had a carryall slung over one shoulder, suggesting he’d taken the time to pack before coming to the bridge.  She didn't really blame him for that, not when she knew there were captains who’d frogmarch a deserter to the airlock and kick him off the ship.  Abigail wouldn't do that, not unless she was firing a crewman, but Ashburn had no way of knowing it.  He hadn't served with her for very long.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” she said.  “May I ask why?”

“I’m not remotely comfortable serving under the military,” Ashburn said.  “And I would prefer not to discuss it further.”

Abigail nodded, slowly.  Privacy was practically a holy concept in the belt.  Too many of the original settlers had fled an Earth that had grown less and less private until the government, corporations and even ordinary civilians could find out almost anything about anyone just by exploring the datanet.  And besides, too many Belters shared cramped quarters.  What little fragments of privacy they had were jealously guarded.  Whatever Ashburn’s reasons, she had no right to pry into them.  He was leaving her crew, after all.

“You’ll be going into lockdown,” she pointed out.  She’d told them that, hadn't she?  Yes, she had.  And she wouldn't let Ashburn change his mind, not now.  A man who had declared his intention to leave could no longer be considered reliable.  “And after that ...”

She lifted her datapad and brought up Ashburn’s file.  It was simple enough, merely recording his time on four separate freighters.  None of his commanding officers had had much to say about him, although they’d vouched for his competency.  Abigail had thought that that wasn't actually a bad thing.  The crewers who were remembered were either extremely good or so unspeakably bad that they posthumously won the Darwin Award.

“I don’t have any complaints about you,” she said.  She could have bitched about him jumping ship, but it wouldn't be particularly fair.  He’d been given the opportunity to leave and he’d taken it.  It wasn't as if he'd deserted at short notice.  “I’ll give you a reference, but” - she waved a hand at the bulkhead - “it may be a while before anyone sees it.  Or hears from me, if they want to check.”

“I understand,” Ashburn said.  “I think I’ll head further out, anyway.  They say there’s good work in the Terra Nova System.”

“As long as you don’t mind the risk of being blown up,” Abigail pointed out.  The civil war on Terra Nova was heating up, again.  She’d once transported a load of emigrants from Terra Nova who’d wanted to go somewhere - anywhere - else.  “But I suppose the asteroids will be reasonably safe.”

“I hope so,” Ashburn said.  “And thank you.”

Abigail shrugged.  “It’s no trouble,” she said.  She nodded to the hatch.  Technically, she should have walked him to the airlock, but she wasn’t feeling gracious.  “Watch yourself out there.”

She watched him go, feeling torn.  She knew better than to have a crewman who didn't want to be there, but - at the same time - she felt as though he’d deserted her.  And yet, she knew she was being unfair.  Farris Ashburn hadn't signed up for naval service, any more than he’d signed up to spend his whole life working under her.

And he probably won’t be the only one, either, she thought.  Two of her crewers were reservists, not counting herself, but the others had no obligation to stay with the ship.  How many others are going to want to leave?

She shook her head in annoyance.  There was no point in worrying about it, not now.  The die was cast.  In truth, it had been cast the moment the aliens had shown themselves.

“Too many other things to worry about,” she muttered.  “Starting with the criminals in my new crew.”

Chapter Six

It was typical of the Royal Navy, Alan had often considered, that ‘hurry up and wait’ was practically its unofficial motto.  After racing him and a number of other convicts from Colchester to the isolated - and apparently unnamed - military base, the Royal Navy hadn't shown any particular urgency about shipping him to his new post.  It took five days for a shuttle flight to orbit to be arranged, then another for Alan, Bennett and Alan’s new assistant to be transferred to an intersystem high-boost shuttle for the flight to Tallyman.  The only advantage, as far as he could tell, was that it gave him time to read the files and think about the future.

He looked over at Bennett, sleeping in an acceleration couch, and sighed.  The big man was a consummate actor, among other things.  When they were in company, Bennett was polite and respectful and everything Alan might want from a junior officer; when they were alone, Bennett allowed his dislike and distrust to shine through.  Alan had been tempted to make remarks about daddy issues, but it had seemed pointless.  He was stuck with Bennett until the war was over or, more likely, they were both blown out of space.

It could be worse, he told himself, firmly.  I could be back at Colchester.

Lieutenant Madison Hudson cleared her throat.  “Do you want another mug of tea?”

“No, thank you,” Alan said.  Tea was the one thing that wasn't in short supply, even on a tiny intersystem shuttle.  The Royal Navy practically ran on tea.  “But feel free to get one for yourself, if you want it.”

He watched his new assistant as she rose and headed for the dispenser.  Lieutenant Madison Hudson - she’d told him that she preferred to be called Maddy - was young and beautiful, with curly red hair, bright green eyes and a body that reminded him, once again, that it had been too long since he’d lain with anyone.  And yet, she was young enough to make him feel slightly guilty about looking.  The way she practically bowed and scraped in front of Bennett and himself suggested she hadn't had a very good time in her prison.  God knew where she’d been, but it probably hadn’t been Colchester.

Which isn't too surprising, he thought.  A young woman probably wouldn't be sentenced to Colchester unless there was something very significant about her crimes.

He sighed, inwardly.  Maddy’s career had been fairly normal for a logistics support officer - a stint in starfighter command, a desk job on Nelson Base, an assignment as personal assistant to a senior officer - until she’d been caught embezzling money from the navy’s funds.  It had been quite clever, according to the report.  Maddy’s superior had come very close to taking the fall, as he’d signed a number of financial documents without bothering to read them very closely.  Indeed, it had been sheer luck that the scheme had been uncovered before Maddy had quietly left the navy, taking her ill-gotten gains with her.  Maddy had been sentenced to five years in prison, three years ago.  Alan was mildly surprised she’d agreed to serve in exchange for a formal pardon.  She had far less time on her sentence

Her prison must have been bad, Alan told himself.  A young and pretty woman behind bars would be victimised by her fellow inmates, even if the guards were too professional to take advantage of her themselves.  And she doesn't look as though she can defend herself.

He leaned back in his chair, silently counting down the minutes to arrival.  Maddy had the skills he needed, at least on paper.  Once the remainder of the crew arrived - the starfighter pilots and their support staff - they could get to work.  He’d have to make sure that everyone drilled as hard as possible, no matter the situation.  The pilots assigned to an escort carrier would not be the cream of the crop.  Chances were that most of them would not have had their contracts renewed when they finally expired.

And some of them probably have disciplinary problems, he thought, morbidly.  I’ll have to knock them all into shape.

The shuttle shivered, slightly.  “Attention,” the pilot’s voice said.  “We will be docking in twenty minutes.  Please gather your luggage and prepare to disembark.”

Alan rolled his eyes.  It wasn't as if they were on a monorail, with only a few minutes to jump off before the doors slid closed and the train resumed its journey.  He wasn't sure how long the shuttle would be docked to the converted freighter, but it would be more than long enough for them to collect all of their belongings and depart in a calm and reasonable manner.  Besides, they only had one carryall each.  It wasn’t as if naval personnel were allowed to take more than the basics when they travelled to their latest assignments.

Bennett opened his eyes.  “Twenty minutes, he said?”

“Yeah,” Alan agreed, shortly.  He stood and removed his carryall from the overhead compartment.  “Do you have everything you need?”

“Yes, sir,” Bennett said.  “Maddy?”

“I have everything,” Maddy said, quietly.

Another shudder ran through the shuttle as it slowed.  Alan walked to the nearest porthole and peered out into interplanetary space.  A freighter - a giant Workhorse-class freighter - was floating nearby, illuminated by powerful spotlights.  Dozens of dockyard workers, some in spacesuits and others in worker bees, were swarming over the hull, slowly manoeuvring prefabricated pieces of material into place.  When assembled, the entire lower half of the ship would be converted into everything a couple of starfighter squadrons needed to operate for quite some time.  Archibald Haddock wouldn't have anything like the flexibility of a fleet carrier, he told himself, but she would suffice.  He felt his heart starting to pound as they drew closer.  Two weeks ago, he’d known he’d never serve on a starship again.  Now ...

The freighter was ugly, he noted.  She looked like a brick, with only a handful of sensor blisters breaking the monotony of the hull.  Ark Royal, for all her crudity, was far more elegant than Haddock.  And yet, there was something about her that called to him.  Perhaps it was just the realisation that she represented his last chance.  If he screwed up now, during a war, he’d be lucky if he was just pitched out the airlock.  

Then I better hadn't screw up, he told himself, firmly.

He turned away from the porthole as the shuttle docked and followed Maddy down to the opening hatch.  It was hard not to stare at her rear, despite the loose-fitting naval overalls she wore.  She was perfect ... he shook his head, angrily.  He couldn't allow himself to become distracted, not now.  Besides, he had a sneaking suspicion that Maddy’s looks had helped her convince Admiral Givens not to read the paperwork too closely.  Alan had met Admiral Givens, seven years ago.  He’d never struck Alan as particularly competent.  It was a surprise that he hadn't been unceremoniously transferred to Ark Royal years ago.

He probably had friends in high places, Alan thought.  That’s why he was allowed to retire after Maddy nearly framed him for grand larceny.

There was, technically, a formal protocol to be followed when boarding a starship for the first time.  Alan had decided not to bother, when he’d heard about the assignment.  He wasn't the commanding officer, let alone an admiral.  And besides, a freighter crew couldn't be expected to present arms ... if they had the room to present arms.  Haddock didn't have a flight deck - yet - and even when she did, it wouldn't be designed for formal receptions.  He allowed Maddy to step through the hatch, then followed her.  The smell struck him as soon as he was through the hatch.

He wrinkled his nose, despite himself.  The air smelled of too many people in too close proximity, mingled with a faint hint of ionisation and burning.  It could have been worse, he reminded himself sharply.  Crewmen on long-distance voyages often lost their sense of smell after a few weeks - or, at least, they grew accustomed to the pong.  He looked around, pushing the matter out of his mind.  A painting of a bearded man in an old-style naval uniform had been drawn on the nearest bulkhead.  The man looked to be on the verge of exploding with rage.

“Our namesake,” a quiet voice said.  “Captain Haddock himself.”

Alan turned.  A middle-aged woman was standing by the bulkhead, wearing a form-fitting shipsuit that looked to have seen better days.  He studied her for a long moment, noting the dark hair, almond eyes and heavyset body ... her mother or grandmother, he decided, had probably been one of the mail order brides from the security zones.  They’d preferred the uncertainties of married life in space to life in the zones.  Alan didn't really blame the poor women.  The security zones were constantly torn apart by civil and religious conflict and women, as always, got the worst of it. A spacer’s bride would have a better life than someone trapped in the zones.  Women were treated with respect in space.

The woman looked back at him, her eyes cold and dispassionate.  “Welcome onboard,” she said.  “I’m Captain Harrison, Abigail Harrison.  I’ll show you to your quarters so you can drop off your bags, then I’ll give you a tour of the ship.  Or what parts of it you can access at the moment, anyway.”

“That would be very interesting,” Alan said.  He winced, inwardly.  It was clear that Captain Harrison knew something about them.  What had she been told?  If she knew that Alan had been in Colchester, what did she think he’d done?  “Thank you for your time.”

Abigail eyed him for a long moment.  “Follow me,” she grunted.  “And don’t stick your hand into any of the open panels.”

Alan looked around with interest as they walked up the corridor.  Abigail hadn't been joking about the open panels.  A dozen wall and ceiling panels had been removed, exposing the ship’s power distribution network.  Alan frowned as he realised that half the visible components were no longer original, perhaps not even from British factories.  Belters were supposed to be good at getting Russian and Chinese components to mesh with their British counterparts, but he couldn't help being concerned.  The original components had been significantly over-engineered.  He had no way to know if their replacements lived up to the same standards.

We’d better hope, he told himself.  And check everything, twice.  Better to have a blow-out here than in deep space.

The corridors were decorated with all kinds of paintings and pictures, some clearly drawn by children while others owed their existence to more talented artists.  Alan felt a stab of envy, mingled with grim amusement and regret.  Haddock was a home as much as she was a ship, a home that was being turned into a fortress.  His training told him he should order the decorations taken down, common sense insisted he should keep his mouth shut.  The civilian crew wouldn't be happy if they were told to embrace military culture.  If they’d wanted to follow orders without question, they would have joined the military.

They stopped outside a pair of hatches.  “You and Lieutenant Bennett will be sharing this compartment,” Abigail informed them, as the closest hatch hissed open.  “Lieutenant Hudson has this cabin to herself, for the moment.  She’ll be paired up with another woman when we have a suitable candidate.”

“Thank you,” Maddy said, quietly.

Abigail nodded, then indicated the open hatch.  “Two bunks, a wardrobe and a private washroom.  Water is limited at the moment, so showers are restricted to five minutes each.  Hopefully, we’ll get the recyclers back online in the next few days and then we can take longer showers.  There’s a small terminal in the bulkhead, but I suggest you use your datapad for anything private.  I can't guarantee computer security.”

Bennett cleared his throat.  “I presume we’re still in lockdown?”

“More or less,” Abigail said.  “Any messages you send will be routed through the asteroid’s signal buffer, so don’t write anything you don’t want the censors to see.  We’re too far from any other settlement for real-time communications, for better or worse.  I haven't been told what will happen if you do try to break the information embargo, but I don’t think it will be pleasant.”

She stepped inside and opened the wardrobe.  “I want all three of you in shipsuits at all times,” she added.  Her voice turned faintly sarcastic.  “Wear your overalls over them, if you wish, but make sure your masks are easily accessible.  You can't breathe outside the hull, as I’m sure you're aware.  We don’t want to suddenly have a hull breach, but the way they’re buzzing around outside ...”

“I thought the hull was armoured,” Maddy said.

“Technically, it is,” Abigail said.  “But if there’s an accident with a cutting torch, well ...”

She shrugged.  “The engineers swear blind that we’ll be ready for departure in eight days,” she said.  Her lips quirked, as if she was making a joke.  “It was ten days, two days ago.  I suggest you spend the time familiarising yourselves with the ship, but stay out of their way.  I don’t want any accidents.  My insurance won’t stand it.”

“Understood, Captain,” Alan said.  Perhaps it would be better to stay in the cabin.  A datapad full of eBooks or videos would be better company than Bennett.  And having a datapad would make up for the cramped compartment.  There was no way Bennett and himself could dress simultaneously.  “Is there anything else we ought to know?”

“Two things,” Abigail said.  She stepped back outside the cabin, meeting his eyes.  “First, most of my crew are civilian volunteers.  They might be being paid hazard rates, but they’re not naval personnel in anything ... even in name.  Do not treat them as slaves.  You’ll find they’re good at their jobs, but they’re not so good at discipline.”

“I have never treated anyone like a slave,” Alan said.

“Goody,” Abigail said.  “Second, then.  The files weren't too clear on what you actually did to earn yourselves a jail sentence.  I have been assured that none of you pose a serious risk to my crew, but I have been given no way to judge that for myself.  I have not shared what little I know about your pasts with my crew, just to ensure they don’t allow it to affect their work - and, frankly, I’m not sure that was wise.”

She kept her eyes firmly fixed on his.  “I will not tolerate anything that smacks of criminal behaviour,” she warned him.  “From any of you - starfighter pilots as well as support crews.  And if I get a single hint that you’re going back to your old ways, you will be pitched out of the airlock.  Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” Alan said, flatly.  

It was hard, so hard, not to shake his head in disbelief.  He was meant to work with this woman?  He didn't really blame Abigail for being concerned, not when she didn't know what he’d actually done, but it would sour their relationship completely.  Perhaps he should tell her the truth.  Or Maddy should tell Abigail about her crimes.  The RockRats would enjoy the story of an over-promoted aristocratic pig being taken for a ride by someone he’d considered nothing more than arm candy.  They might even side with Maddy when they found out the truth.

“Get into your shipsuits,” Abigail ordered.  “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

“A woman after my own heart,” Bennett said, once they were inside the tiny cabin.  “I like her.”

Alan snorted.  “She thinks you’re a criminal too.”

Bennett laughed.  “I have ID I can show her, if necessary,” he said.  “You do realise she’s married?”

“No,” Alan said.

“Four husbands, five wives,” Bennett said.  “Group-marriages are not uncommon in the belt, as you know.  Four of them stay in their warren, looking after the younger children, while the remaining adults go out to bring home the bacon.  The older children are already moving into adulthood.  Captain Harrison has two children, both serving on this ship.”

Alan shrugged as he stripped off his tunic and reached for the shipsuit.  It was a naval design, as ugly and uncomfortable as he remembered.  Wearing it was like wearing a second skin, but he knew he’d be glad of it if there was a hull breach.  It wouldn't provide quite as much protection as a normal spacesuit, yet it might just make the difference between life or death.

As long as you’re close to a shelter or emergency supplies, he thought, remembering his instructor’s warnings.  The man had put the cadets through hell, but they'd known it was necessary.  If you’re too far from either, take advantage of the last few seconds to bend over and kiss your arse goodbye.

“Tiny shower too,” Bennett said.  “No room to bend over if you drop the soap.”

“How fortunate,” Alan said, crossly.  He was getting tired of Bennett constantly poking and prodding to see what would draw a reaction.  “And these beds were obviously not designed for your enormous bulk.”

Bennett leered, cheerfully.  “I suppose I might just break the upper bunk and land on your head,” he said.  “That would solve one problem rather nicely, wouldn't it?”

“Get bent,” Alan said.  He refused to consider the possibility.  Military bunks might be small, but they were designed to take far heavier weights ... weren’t they?  This was a civilian ship ... he pushed the thought aside before it could depress him too much.  “I’ll be outside.”

“Don’t go wandering off,” Bennett told him.  “The Captain will not be pleased.”

Alan nodded and stepped through the hatch.  Maddy was waiting for him, wearing her overalls over the shipsuit.  It did nothing, this time, to hide the shape of her body.  Alan looked away, cursing himself.  He’d just have to keep himself under control.

You can always take matters in hand, later, he told himself.  You should be used to being watched by now.

Chapter Seven

Abigail hadn't been sure what to expect from the convicted criminals.  The belt shunned minor criminals, to the point where they either took their own lives or shipped out somewhere no one had ever heard their name, while major criminals were simply executed and their bodies fed into the recycler.  It was rare for a belter criminal to ever earn forgiveness for his crimes, if only because anything the belt considered a crime was serious.  It had to involve someone getting hurt or a very good chance of someone getting hurt.

She allowed her gaze to flicker across them as they waited.  The red-headed woman looked innocent, but Abigail had been a daughter and then a mother.  She wasn't fooled by an act designed to make people overlook the actress.  Men could be such fools, at times.  A woman who looked weak and helpless would spark either protective or predatory instincts, rather than warning the men to watch their backs.  An entire ring of thugs had been busted a year or two ago, on Ceres, for using young women as Judas Goats.  They’d picked up wealthy men and lured them into their apartments, where they’d been robbed and drugged by the male thieves.  The redhead might not be physically dangerous, but that meant nothing.  Abigail would keep an eye on her anyway.

The two men were odder.  Lieutenant Bennett was rough and crude - Abigail had no trouble recognising a very dangerous man - but there was something about him that made her feel safe.  That puzzled her, more than she cared to admit.  She’d had worse vibes - far worse vibes - from men who hadn't looked anything like as dangerous.  But then, the belt rarely had time for politeness.  It was considered better to say what you meant and deal with the consequences rather than hide behind half-truths and passive-aggressive verbal conflict.

And Commander Campbell was ... odder.  Clearly an educated man, but ... weighed down by guilt.  Guilt for what, exactly?  Abigail cursed, again, whoever it was who’d refused to forward the uncensored files to Tallyman.  She wanted - she needed - to know what he'd done.  There was something about Campbell - she supposed she’d better get used to thinking of him as Alan, if he was to be her XO - that bothered her.  He didn't have the same ... presence ... as Bennett, yet there was a sense of violence below the surface.  What the hell had he done?

Better find a way to ask him, she told herself.  And hope to hell he tells the truth.

“As you can see, the entire upper section has been converted into a maze of living quarters, control centres and a couple of training suites,” she said, as she led them through the corridors.  They weren't seeing the ship at her best, but it couldn’t be helped.  “There are two sections set aside for the pilots, with twelve bunks in each one.  I assume that will be suitable?”

“It won’t be any worse than the quarters on a fleet carrier,” Alan said.  His voice held a faint accent that reminded Abigail of one of her distant relatives.  “Do you have an exercise compartment?”

“And a gaming room,” Abigail said.  “One of my kids is very fond of Sonic the Hedgehog - he downloaded copies of everything from the classical versions to the fifth or sixth VR reboot.  You’re welcome to play the games, if you have time.”

“Maybe after I’ve brushed up on starfighter flying,” Alan said.  He sounded oddly amused by her words.  “Is there enough space for the support crews?”

“Aye,” Abigail said.  They stopped outside one of the sleeping quarters.  Abigail opened the hatch, allowing them to look inside.  “We’re sleeping six to a compartment here - again, it’s not ideal, but it’s the best we can do.”

“I’ve been in worse places,” Alan said.

“Try sleeping in a foxhole sometime, sir,” Bennett told him.  “It’s uncomfortable as fuck.”

Abigail glanced at him, puzzled.  Lieutenant Bennett was outranked by Commander Campbell, but ... Bennett didn't act like a naval officer.  His file had been curiously sparse, too sparse.  She wondered, suddenly, if he'd been in the army instead.  Or maybe he’d been in a deniable unit and very little had actually been committed to the datafiles.  There was no way to know, short of trying to talk him into revealing his past.  And she had a feeling that Bennett, for all of his crudeness, actually kept himself under very tight control.

“There are two showers at the rear of each compartment,” Abigail said, dismissing the mystery.  She could think about it later.  “By the time the crew arrive, the water restrictions should have been lifted.  If not ...” - she shrugged - “... they’ll just have to get used to it.”

She led them out the hatch and down the corridor.  “There’s no such thing as a secondary bridge on a freighter, so we put the CIC in here,” she explained, as she opened another hatch.  “It’s very makeshift, but it should do.”

“I hope so,” Alan said.  

Abigail tried to see it through his eyes.  A pair of consoles and chairs, a holographic projector ... she’d seen footage of life onboard a fleet carrier.  Their Combat Information Centres were immense, with enough space for a couple of dozen staffers.  Haddock barely had room for two or three people, unless they were very good friends.  She glanced at Maddy, trailing behind the men.  Was she close to either of them?  Or was this their first meeting?  It was impossible to be sure.

“We built as much redundancy as we could into the network,” she told them.  “But this ship is still very fragile.  A direct hit will be enough to put us out of the battle.”

“Blow us into atoms, you mean,” Alan said.  He sat down in one of the chairs and looked around.  “Have you tested the systems?”

“We did the basics,” Abigail said.  “But actual drills and live-fire exercises ...?  No.”

“Something to do then, as soon as we’re ready,” Alan said.  “The sooner we figure out the problems, the sooner we can fix them.”

“Yes, sir,” Maddy said.

Abigail kept her thoughts to herself as they walked through the rest of the upper decks, pausing briefly to introduce the newcomers to her crew.  Sickbay was a joke, compared to a military facility; there was no trained doctor, merely an autodoc.  Abigail and several of her crew had some medical training, but not enough to cope with more than a handful of basic injuries.  The life support units were over-engineered, yet they were still going to be pushed to the limit.  And Engineering was in complete disarray.

“We think we’ve worked out most of the kinks,” she said, as they headed back to the CIC.  “But we have no way to be sure.”

“We’ll find out when we go to work,” Alan assured her.  “How many spare parts are we carrying?”

“Not as many as I’d like,” Abigail admitted.  “We’re on the list for whatever’s available, but ...”

She gritted her teeth in frustration.  On one hand, the Royal Navy had given her a blank cheque; on the other, there just weren't enough supplies to go around.  The peacetime navy simply hadn't built up the stockpiles it would need to fight a major war.  She hoped some barmy bureaucrat was going to be penalised for that particular balls-up.  It would take time, perhaps too much time, to kick-start production to meet wartime requirements.  Until then, the Royal Navy was going to be facing all kinds of shortfalls.

“Maybe we can requisition a couple of extra starfighters,” Alan said.  “We could turn them into hangar queens if necessary.”

“And you could fly one yourself, sir,” Bennett offered.  “We might need you out there.”

“I haven’t flown a starfighter for years,” Alan pointed out.  “I’m not even sure what model starfighters we’ll be getting.”

“Better to be out there shooting back,” Bennett said.  “Maddy can handle starfighter operations if necessary.”

Abigail cleared her throat.  “I trust you to handle such matters yourself,” she said, as they walked into the cramped CIC.  “You have authorisation to use the shipboard datanet, but be careful.  Make sure you clear anything you want to upload with the engineers first.”

Bennett gave her an odd look.  “Is the system that fragile, Captain?”

“Right now, yeah,” Abigail said.  “They tore out one of our two datacores and replaced it with an updated version, then spent a day rewriting the programming to convince the newer datacore to talk to the older datacore.  I’ve been assured that the command and control system remains intact - and isolated - but I’m not actually sure.  Given time, the AIs will bridge the gap permanently ...”

She sighed.  AI had never quite lived up to its promise, unless one believed that the AIs actually were intelligent and chose to hide it.  Talking to an AI was like talking to a child who never actually learnt from experience, let alone grew up.  Learning systems never seemed to make the jump into genuine intelligence.  The military was reluctant to allow AIs anywhere near its vessels, pointing out the dangers involved.  She was tempted, for once, to think that the military might have a point.

“Again, we’ll work on it,” Alan said.  He looked down at the darkened console.  “If you don’t mind, we’ll start at once.”

Abigail’s lips twitched.  She couldn't complain about his work ethic, she supposed, even though he’d only arrived a couple of hours ago.  But she would have urged them to have a nap, if she’d thought they’d take the advice.  She had no idea if they’d slept on the shuttle or not, but it couldn't have been very comfortable.

“It is fifteen-hundred-hours now,” she said, glancing at her wristcom.  “I ... request ... the pleasure of your company at nineteen-hundred-hours for dinner.”

She watched them, closely.  Bennett showed no visible reaction, but both Alan and Maddy looked uncomfortable.  What did that mean?  No one on the ship, apart from her, knew they’d been in jail.  Were they reluctant to meet the rest of the crew?  Or were they feeling a little overwhelmed?  Abigail could move between crowded asteroids and empty ships without a qualm, but she had a feeling jail would be a little different.

“It will be our pleasure,” Alan said, finally.  “We thank you.”

Abigail nodded, then spun on her heel and walked out the hatch.  It hissed closed behind her, cutting off the sound.  She would have liked to listen to whatever was said, after she left, but she knew it was impossible.  Instead, she checked her wristcom’s inbox as she headed down the corridor.  Their client was somewhat bemused by how the cargo pallets had arrived at Ceres, but he was relieved to receive them anyway.

It won’t be long before the truth gets out, Abigail thought.  The news corporations might be closely supervised on Earth, but it was a great deal harder to keep spacers from talking to one another and sharing notes.  And there was no shortage of hackers ready to spread news - and rumours - through the datanet.  And then ... who knows what will happen?

She stopped outside the shuttle hatch and keyed the switch.  It opened, revealing the interior of a military-grade shuttlecraft.  Abigail guessed that whoever had designed the craft had either been a Royal Marine or a Belter, as the design was ruthlessly practical instead of comfortable.  Anson was seated in the cockpit, his fingers dancing over the keyboard.  He seemed to be having fun.

Abigail cleared her throat.  “What do you make of it?”

Anson looked up and smiled.  “Awesome,” he said.  “This baby is light-years ahead of our old piece of junk.”

“It isn't as if we ever had to make planetfall,” Abigail pointed out, dryly.  Trying to land Haddock on a planetary surface would be an expensive form of suicide.  “How many times did we actually use the shuttle?”

“Twice, at Wayland,” Anson reminded her.  “But those were meant to be once-offs.”

He tapped the control stick.  “I can put this baby down in a storm,” he said.  The confidence in his voice sounded unshakable.  “And then land her on a dime ...”

“Be very careful,” Abigail warned.  “You’ve never flown through a real storm, have you?”

Anson nodded, but he looked unabashed.  Abigail sighed, inwardly.  She’d handled a couple of rough landings, but otherwise she’d stayed in space when she hadn't let someone else do the flying.  It was hard for a Belter to understand just how rough a planetary atmosphere could be, if one didn't take very good care.  She honestly couldn't understand why immigration to outer space wasn’t much higher.  Unlimited space, unlimited resources, unlimited wealth ... and no weather.  Why would anyone choose to live on a planetary surface when they could live in space?

“I’ve been downloading training simulations,” Anson said, after a moment.  “The shuttle isn't that different from the standard designs.  I should be able to fly it without problems.  And we have everything from military-grade emergency beacons to military grade emergency kits.  They even gave us some suspension drugs ...”

“Very good,” Abigail said.  She walked into the cockpit - there was no bulkhead between the cockpit and the passenger compartment, something that puzzled her - and sat in the co-pilot’s seat.  “What else do you have to tell me?”

“I got a data packet from George,” Anson said.  “Apparently, rumours are getting out.  And a number of people have noticed that we never arrived on Ceres, but our cargo did.  We’re not the only ones, it seems.  There’s some quite accurate speculation running around the datanet.”

His face darkened.  “And Cindy has apparently started dating Peppy.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Abigail said.  She was torn between relief and profound sympathy for her son.  Cindy was strikingly pretty, but Abigail had never considered her suitable marriage material.  Too self-centred, at least by Belter standards.  And probably not inclined to join a group-marriage where everyone either worked to support the family or took care of the children.  “There are plenty more fish in the sea.”

“You were married at twenty,” Anson pointed out.  “Dad was ... what?  Twenty-five?”

“Boys do tend to get married a little later than girls,” Abigail pointed out.  She allowed herself a smile.  “I did have to have children, you know.”

“I don’t want to know,” Anson said, quickly.

Abigail laughed, then sobered.  It wasn't uncommon for children - even grown children - to deny the idea that their parents might have been sexual beings.  Abigail knew her parents must have had sex at least five times - she had four siblings - but she didn't want to think about it.  No doubt her parents had reproduced by using an exowomb ... although they would still have had to get the eggs and sperm from somewhere.

She dismissed the thought in amused irritation.  “Cindy’s just playing the field before she settles down and gets married,” she said.  Personally, she doubted Cindy would ever settle down, but there was no way to be sure.  God knew Abigail had done some pretty silly things in her day.  “When you get back from our next cruise, you’ll be a war hero.”

“They won’t be able to say I was a coward,” Anson agreed.  “But ... serving on an escort carrier isn't really that heroic.”

“That’s what the Japanese believed, back in the Second World War,” Abigail said.  The briefing notes had been very detailed when it came to historical examples.  “They didn't put any real effort into protecting their freighters when they sailed to and from the Japanese Home Islands.  And so the American submarines sank pretty much all of the freighters ...”

She shrugged.  “Meanwhile, the British and Americans protected their freighters.  Ships ran in convoys, escorted by warships.  And so the shipping got through and the good guys won the war.”

Except in Eastern Europe, she added, silently.  She’d looked up some of the context too, just to try and determine if she was being snowballed.  One set of very bad guys was defeated by another set of slightly less bad guys.

She snorted at the thought.  The Second World War was over two hundred years in the past, a simpler time in many ways.  She had very little in common with the women of that era, although she imagined she had a great deal in common with the freighter captains.  And yet, it had laid the seeds for the next set of global conflicts, as well as the technology that had allowed humanity to finally escape its homeworld.

“I’m glad to hear we’re doing something useful,” Anson said.  He didn’t sound particularly convinced.  “But it’s hardly heroic.”

“It's still a vital contribution,” Abigail said.  She would have expected the belters to understand, even if the groundpounders did not.  “Could they keep those fleet carriers flying if they didn't get regular deliveries of supplies from home?  Or new crewmen and pilots for those immense ships?  Or ... they need freighters, Anson.  We’re as much a part of the war effort as any warship.”

She leaned forward, resting a hand on his arm.  “Look, here’s a suggestion.  Spend some time in the starfighter training simulators.  They won’t be in use 24/7, so you should be able to find a time when you can have a go.  See if you can pick up enough to request a transfer to the starfighter training centre.  And if you can, you can put in the request when we return to Sol.”

Anson looked doubtful.  “Would they take me?”

“You’re an experienced spacer,” Abigail pointed out.  Her children knew how to think - and operate - in three dimensions.  How many groundpounders could say the same?  “You have much less to unlearn.”

She rose.  “But wait until we get back from our first voyage,” she added.  “You don't want to give the navy the impression you want to desert.”

“No,” Anson agreed.  “That would be awkward.”  

Chapter Eight

“You know,” Alan muttered to Bennett, “the Royal Navy has set new records for efficiency.”

“The prospect of hanging does tend to concentrate a few minds, sir,” Bennett agreed, as the starfighter pilots filed into the briefing room.  “Unfortunately, as a very great man put it, the prospect of hanging tends to concentrate the mind on the fact that it is about to be hanged.”

Alan shot him a sidelong look.  “You read Making Money?”

“Going Postal,” Bennett corrected.  “And yes, I read it.”

Alan shook his head in wry amusement, then turned his attention back to the compartment.  It was a ramshackle affair, one that would have shocked any fleet carrier commander.  Thirty chairs, a single table, a simple projector ... it was a far cry from the high-tech surroundings he’d been used to on Formidable.  But it would have to do.  He leaned against the bulkhead and watched, grimly, as the starfighter pilots filed into the compartment.  Twenty-four men and women, eighteen to twenty-four, wearing basic blues.  Perhaps it was his imagination, but there was a sloppiness about them that galled him.  He’d never been so sloppy when he’d been a starfighter pilot.

But you did your own share of stupid things, his thoughts reminded him.  You’re not in a position to bitch and moan about pilots who merely got drunk in the wardroom and rendered themselves unfit for duty.

He pushed the thought away as his eyes swept the room.  A handful of names and faces were familiar to him from the files - Wing Commander Mike Whitehead and Wing Commander Marc Savage, in particular - but others were complete unknowns.  They’d all have disciplinary records, though.  Drunkenness, fighting in bars ... in one case, even being caught in bed with a senior officer.  She was damn lucky not to have been immediately discharged, according to the files.  Her paramour had been tossed into the brig and unceremoniously booted out of the navy when their starship had returned home.

And now he’ll probably be summoned back to the colours, Alan thought, sourly.  Along with everyone else who didn't go too far.

The room settled down, quickly.  Alan allowed his eyes to wander over the small crowd, wondering which of them would cause trouble.  There was usually one troublemaker per squadron ... hell, he'd been the troublemaker as a younger man.  The pilot who wore a uniform that looked two sizes too big for him?  Or the pilot who wore a uniform that was too tight around her chest to pass muster on a regular carrier?  Or the one who’d been caught in a drug den when he’d gone on leave?  It wasn't illegal for a civilian, but it was a court-martial offence for a military officer.  Alan made a mental note to keep an eye on him.  Abigail might swear blind that her crewmen were clean, but in Alan’s experience there was always some smuggling going on.  And someone would have set up an illicit still by now.

Alan cleared his throat.  “Welcome onboard,” he said, shortly.  “I am Commander Alan Campbell, the senior military officer on Archibald Haddock.”

He paused.  Did they know him?  It was possible they’d heard the story.  He’d been told it had been extensively reported in the national news, five years ago.  But then, some of the pilots would have been in secondary school at the time.  They probably didn't remember his name.  

All they’d have to do is look me up on the datanet, he thought, sourly.  He had no idea how many people were called Alan Campbell, but it was unlikely that many of them had served in the Royal Navy.  And who knows what they’d think if they knew the truth?

“I won’t waste your time with pleasant speeches,” he added.  “You were assigned to this vessel because you’re screw-ups.  You have disciplinary records longer than my arm.”

“Longer than my dick,” Flight Lieutenant Shawn Greene catcalled.  “It’s big.”

“How lucky for you,” Alan said, as pleasantly as he could.  “And if you interrupt me again, I’ll cut it off.”

A low ripple of amusement ran around the compartment.  Alan ignored it.

“I don’t think any of you would have gotten through your review hearing, if you lasted long enough to face one,” he told them.  “And you know what?  I don’t care.  You’ve all heard the news.  We are at war - and standards have been lowered, sharply, to ensure that the navy’s manpower requirements are met.  If you do well, on Haddock, your records will be scrubbed clean.  Fuck up and there’s a very good chance you won’t live long enough to be dishonourably discharged.

“I don’t care what you did before you reported to me.  I don’t care about the warnings your former commanders wrote into your files.  I don’t give a damn what you did when you went on leave.  All I care about is getting this ship up and out into the fight.  Do well and we’ll get along fine.  Do poorly and you’ll find me the worst nightmare you’ll ever have to face.  There won’t be a second warning.”

He paused, giving his words a moment to sink in.  The Royal Navy had always tolerated a certain degree of immature behaviour from its starfighter pilots, knowing that the odds of any of them surviving a combat mission were terrifyingly low.  Alan looked back on his past record and cringed, inwardly.  He couldn't blame his pilots for their stupidity when he’d been just as stupid himself.  And yet, an escort carrier simply didn't have the space to tolerate foolishness.  He was damned if he was putting up with it.

“This is war,” he said.  “We’re going to be spending much of our time drilling.  When you’re not drilling, you’ll be in your bunks.  Don’t expect any downtime for the next few weeks.  By the time we actually see combat, I want us to be ready for it.

“There will be no alcohol, no drugs, no immersive VR sims ... nothing that could impair your performance.  I don’t have the manpower to tolerate any of you taking the day off because you have a hangover.  Do not defy me on this unless you want to be tossed out the nearest airlock.  This is war.  You will receive absolutely no sympathy whatsoever if you run to the nearest admiral and start bitching about not being able to drink.  I’ll be inspecting your quarters later.  I suggest that you ship any bottles of rotgut you might have brought with you back home before I find them.  They’ll be poured into the shitter if I do.”

He sighed, inwardly.  There would be a bottle or two, of course.  Someone would have obtained a cheap bottle of shipboard rotgut, or splashed out half a month’s wages on Scotch or Vulcan Ale.  He wouldn't make any friends, either, when he confiscated the alcohol.  But it couldn't be helped.  He simply didn't have the manpower to cover up a hangover, even if he’d wanted to.  Hard questions would be asked about why one of his pilots wasn't flying.

And someone will take a look at our statistics, he thought, sourly.  The Admiralty had been demanding regular reports as the refit progressed, apparently so they could decide if they should start the next set of conversions.  There’s always some jumped-up beancounter eager to prove he isn't a complete waste of space.

“Two other points to go over, then,” he told them.  “First, the captain and most of the crew are civilians, rather than military.  Don’t expect them to salute when they meet you or to honour the finer points of military etiquette.  That said, their ranks are to be treated as military ranks for the duration of the conflict and you are to show them proper respect.  The captain may not be a military officer, but she’s been working in space longer than any of you have been alive.  Do not dismiss them as useless.”

He kept his face impassive.  Some of the pilots would understand, he was sure, but others wouldn't.  They’d absorbed a general contempt for civilians - for those who couldn't or wouldn't put their lives on the line - during basic training.  And he had no idea how many of them were mature enough to understand that a merchant spacer would have more experience than themselves.  Starfighter pilots were used to thinking of themselves as the best.  They wouldn't want to take orders from a civilian.  

“Second, most of the crewers come from the asteroid belt, where things are different,” he added.  “They have a different culture, so don’t assume that you can treat them like crewmen on a fleet carrier.  This ship is too small for you to have a brief affair and then end it without repercussions.  In particular, two of the crewmen are very young.  Be careful who you try to lure into bed.  It would probably be better to stay celibate while you’re on this ship.”

“Ouch,” Greene said.

Alan shrugged.  It wasn't technically illegal for starfighter pilots to chase crewmen on fleet carriers, where the pilot and the crewman were in different chains of command.  And no one under eighteen would serve on a fleet carrier.  It was a different story on a belter ship.  He had no idea how Abigail would react to a starfighter pilot trying to seduce her daughter and he didn't want to find out.  Starfighter pilots were alarmingly good at letting their dicks get them in trouble.

“There will be shore leave, at some point,” Alan assured them, dryly.  Sin City wasn't that far away.  “And I’m sure some of you brought wank material with you.”

He paused as a faint titter ran around the compartment.  “I expect you all to act like adults, even if half of you are overgrown children.  This is war.  We don’t have time to deal with minor problems.  I expect complete professionalism when you’re on duty - which will be most of the time.  And I do not expect anything that happens off-duty to affect your performance.  If it does, I’ll make damn sure you’ll regret it.

“Wing Commanders, remain behind.  Everyone else, report to the starfighter launch tubes at fourteen-hundred-hours.  I’ll be inspecting your quarters before then, so you should have just enough time to get rid of anything illicit before I see it.  Any questions?”

Greene stuck up a hand.  “What is the price of sliced ham, per portion?”

“Relevant questions,” Alan clarified.  He supposed he should have seen that coming.  The joke was older than interplanetary spaceflight.  “No?  Dismissed!”

He watched as the pilots rose and headed through the hatch.  Some of them were standing upright, walking like men who knew who and what they were; others looked as if they could barely be bothered walking in a straight line.  They wouldn’t have long to shape up either, not when the ship was due to depart in four days.  Ideally, Alan would have busted the worst of the troublemakers out of the squadrons - perhaps sending them to other starships so they’d have a chance to shape up - but that wasn't an option.  The starfighter pilots he’d been sent had been on their last chance, before the war began.  None of them would have been allowed to remain in the navy if the navy hadn't been so desperate for trained manpower.

At least they weren't in jail, he reminded himself, dryly.

“Take a seat,” he ordered the Wing Commanders.  He glanced back at Bennett, then shrugged. “Do you have any concerns you want to raise?”

“Hundreds,” Wing Commander Mike Whitehead said.  “I assume it would be pointless?”

Alan had to smile, sourly.  “If you want to kick half of the pilots off the ship, then yes,” he said.  Whitehead had a bit of a reputation as a worrywart, an odd trait in a squadron commander.  He even looked like a weak-chinned milksop, the kind of person who’d never be allowed to serve on a recruiting poster.  But then, it had taken him time to climb the ladder.  His stats simply weren't very good.  “Do you have any others?”

“They’re a fine group of men,” Wing Commander Marc Savage said.  “They might be rowdy, sir, but they’ll do their damned jobs.”

“Glad to hear it,” Alan said.  Savage was competent - that wasn’t in doubt - but his disciplinary record was poor.  He’d gone up and down the ranks as many times as a whore’s knickers.  If his stats hadn't been so good he would probably have been discharged long ago.  “That said, I wasn't kidding about no drink or drugs.  Make sure your pilots understand it.”

“They’re only human,” Savage pointed out.  “A man who won’t drink won’t fight.”

Alan looked back at him, evenly.  Savage had a certain rough charisma, the kind of man who’d be happy in a fight and sullenly resentful out of it.  Maybe not the sort of guy the navy would want to put on a recruitment poster either, but someone the navy would find useful as long as his violent streak was pointed in the right direction.  They tended to cause problems on shore leave because they were bored.

“And a drunkard on deck risks the lives of his fellow crewmen,” he said.  “I expect you to make it clear that there will consequences for anything of the sort.”

“Better shut down the still,” Whitehead said.  “Someone will be making rotgut, sir.”

“I know,” Alan said.  “And when we catch them, they’ll wish they’d never been born.”

“They’re civilians, sir,” Savage said.  “I don’t think we can take them round the back and give them a beasting.”

Alan shrugged.  Abigail had assured him that her crewers wouldn't start brewing alcohol for themselves.  That left the military personnel.  He’d already read the support staff the Riot Act, but Whitehead was probably right.  Someone would start fermenting alcohol for themselves pretty soon.  It was an old tradition, one that senior officers normally chose to ignore as long as it didn't impair performance.  But Haddock’s crew wasn't large enough to compensate for a crewman who’d managed to impair his performance.

“We’ll see,” he said.  “Any other concerns?”

“I dare say some will manifest when we start drilling in earnest,” Whitehead said.  Beside him, Savage nodded in agreement.  “They know what they’re doing, but they also have problems.”

“And there’s a war on,” Savage said.  He sounded oddly cheerful.  “The prospect of getting out there, of getting stuck into the enemy ... it’ll put fire in their bellies.”

Alan shrugged.  There had been disputes between America and China - and scrabbles over a handful of newly-discovered systems and tramlines - but the Great Powers had worked hard to avoid a general war.  The Royal Navy’s starfighter pilots hadn't seen action, real action, outside a handful of exercises and simulated drills.  Now ... now there actually was a war to fight.  They’d soon find out just how effective their drills had actually been.

“We shall see,” he said.  He glanced at his wristcom, then rose.  “We’ll go check the quarters now, I think.”

“But dawdle along the way,” Savage said.  

Alan shot him a sidelong glance.  “I hope you haven’t brought anything I’d have to throw out,” he said.  “You are meant to set a good example.”

Bennett followed them as they walked out of the room, his presence a silent reminder that Alan was under constant supervision.  Alan tried to forget him as they made their way down the corridor and into the first set of quarters, where six pilots were waiting for them.  Bags were resting on bunks, already open.  A sealed box, marked for transfer to Tallyman, rested on the floor.  Alan nodded in approval, then turned a blind eye.  Hopefully, the pilots wouldn't be foolish enough not to actually send the box off the ship.  He couldn’t turn a blind eye to that.

The pilots didn't have much, not when space was so tight.  Alan inspected their bags anyway, noting the uniformity.  The navy had issued them with everything from basic uniforms and overalls to underwear and medical supplies.  Alan made a mental note to check that everyone’s medical records were up to date - Haddock didn't have a proper sickbay, with a doctor who’d force the crew to undergo regular checks - as he moved from bag to bag.  The pilots had definitely done a good job of removing anything illicit.

Unless they didn't have anything illicit in the first place, he thought.  But that’s about as likely as me passing SAS Selection.

“Very good,” he said, when he’d finished.  The only item that had been remotely out of place was a pair of lacy panties, owned by Greene.  Alan had been careful not to ask.  He was pretty sure he didn't want to know.   “And now you can all relax until we start the first set of exercises.”

Bennett nudged him as they left the compartment.  “Men and women sleeping together?”

“They’re not men and women,” Whitehead said.  “They’re starfighter pilots.”

Savage put on a mock-falsetto.  “Wing Commander, is it alright to sleep with a fellow pilot?  Why yes, yes it is ... except you young pilots don’t want to sleep.”

“No, they don’t,” Alan said.  He wasn't too concerned.  Mixed wardrooms were a fact of naval life.  And besides, it was against regulations for starfighter pilots to sleep together ... at least when their fellows might catch them.  Anyone who wanted to have an illicit affair would be better off waiting until they could go on shore leave.  “It should be fine.”

Bennett didn't look impressed.  “And when it isn't?”

“Then we deal with it,” Alan said.  The army did not have mixed barracks.  It was actually quite rare for women to serve in the combat arms.  “They’re grown men and women.”

“They’re starfighter pilots,” Whitehead said.

“They’ll be fine once we actually start drilling,” Savage said.  “And we’ll start doing that in an hour.”

Chapter Nine

“Our orders seem to keep changing,” Abigail said.  She sat in her cabin, reclining on the bed while Alan sat on the single chair.  “Yesterday, we were going to Picard; today, we’re going to New Russia.”

“The diplomats are trying to smooth out the politics, now the entire world knows what’s happening,” Alan said.  He took a sip of his tea.  “The Great Powers have never had to work together before.”

Abigail nodded.  The news had leaked three days ago - followed rapidly by a formal announcement - and, so far, the groundpounders had confirmed every negative stereotype the belters held about them.  Riots in the streets, panic-buying ... anyone would think that a moon-sized starship had suddenly materialised in the night sky.  The more thoughtful commenters had pointed out that the aliens were still dozens of light years away, but the effect had been undermined by a couple of smartasses on the datanet pointing out what the time delay actually meant.  It was quite possible that the aliens were closer than they knew.

Not that the belt is doing much better, she conceded, ruefully.  Entire settlements had gone dark, trying to hide from prowling alien starships.  We thought we might have to fight the groundpounders one day.  Instead, we’re allied with them against a far greater foe.

“We’re due to depart in two days,” she said.  “Or has our departure date been put back again?”

“I’m planning on the assumption that we will be leaving on schedule,” Alan said.  “We might be delayed, again, but ...”

He shrugged.  Abigail wondered how he could be so calm.  On one hand, she was accustomed to schedule slips; on the other, these delays were caused by some idiot groundpounder who apparently thought he could move starships around like pieces on a chessboard.  It was maddening to realise that her authority had been expanded in some ways, but circumscribed in others.  And that she had to answer to a bureaucracy.  She’d had to write more reports, over the last couple of weeks, than she’d had to write in the last ten years of her captaincy.  It was frustrating as hell to know that some requests would be met without question, but others would require detailed requests before some timeserver stamped APPROVED on them.

She met his eyes.  “How do you handle it?”

“The delays?”  Alan considered her question for a long moment.  “They’re part of military life, really.  You get used to them.”

“It isn't very efficient,” Abigail pointed out, dryly.  “I’d be in deep shit if I was that inefficient.”

“We’re not quite at the bottom of the supply chain, but we’re almost there,” Alan said.  “I’m not sure if we’re above or below Ark Royal.  They’ll be more concerned with getting the fleet carriers and their escorts ready for action than us.”

“Ouch,” Abigail said.  She leaned forward.  “And the politics?  Was there any update?”

“Nothing, really,” Alan said.  “On one hand, we’re all one big happy family; on the other, that family is scrabbling like ... a scrabbling family.  We’re supposed to be allies with the other spacefaring powers, but no one has managed to sort out a chain of command yet.  Which is awkward, as we’ll be heading to New Russia unless someone changes our orders yet again.”

Abigail nodded, slowly.  The naval beancounters didn't seem to believe that she deserved detailed updates, but she was an old hand at reading between the lines.  New Russia was the largest human colony between Vera Cruz and Earth, the logical place for the Multinational Fleet to assemble.  The aliens would have to punch their way through New Russia if they wanted to drive on Earth ... assuming, of course, that they knew anything about the human sphere’s astrography.  There was no way to be sure what they knew - or didn't know.  All the reports agreed that they could have captured navigation charts on Vera Cruz, but no one knew if they had.

And some talking head was screaming about information security on the datanet, she thought, remembering the updates her family had forwarded to her.  They’ll make life harder for everyone else, now they’re locking the stable doors after the horse has bolted.

She leaned back on the bed and picked up her mug.  It was empty.  

“What do you think will happen?”  She asked, as she started to search for something else to drink.  “I mean ... who’ll be in command?”

“I think they won’t care that much about a lowly escort carrier,” Alan said, thoughtfully.  “A fleet carrier?  Sure, they’d care about a fleet carrier.  But us?  I don’t know.”

“A fleet has to have an unquestioned chain of command,” Abigail said.  Her fingers found the bottle she was searching for and pulled it out.  “Pass over your mug.  I think you need something a little stronger.”

Alan looked doubtful.  “I made my pilots send their alcohol back to the asteroid,” he said.  “I really shouldn't be drinking ...”

“You’re off-duty,” Abigail reminded him.  “Please.  I insist.”

She kept her face impassive as he wrestled with his conscience.  She’d looked him up in the shipboard records, but found nothing.  Whatever Alan had done hadn't been considered important enough to add to the onboard encyclopaedia.  She was reluctant to try to ask through the datanet, if only because all messages and search requests still went through the censors on the asteroid.  Someone might object to her trying to find out what her XO had actually done to get himself thrown in jail.

And I need to know before we leave, she told herself.  Normally, she would have respected someone’s privacy, but matters were far from normal.  Even if it does mean trying to get him drunk enough to loosen his tongue.

Alan surrendered and held out his mug.  Abigail splashed a generous helping into his mug, then filled her own.  Her alcohol tolerance was pretty high - she’d had all kinds of minor improvements spliced into her genome - but she reminded herself to be careful anyway.  She was too old to go to a bar, get extremely drunk and wake up the following morning in a stranger’s bed.  Her parents hadn't been particularly sympathetic when she’d been nursing hangovers either.

“Cheers,” Alan said.  He took a swig - and choked.  “What the hell is this stuff?  Paint stripper?”

“Genuine Firewater, from Ceres,” Abigail said.  “I was told that naval types could hold their beer.”

“This isn't beer,” Alan said.  “This is ... this is ...”

He took another swig.  “I suppose it grows on you.”

“It does,” Abigail agreed.  “You just have to drink enough of it.”

She took a sip herself, wincing slightly as it burned her throat.  No one bought Firewater for the taste.  Back when she’d been young, it had been considered the height of manliness to drink a whole bottle without pausing to take a breath.  In hindsight, they’d all been very lucky not to die of alcohol poisoning.  Or be shunned for putting everyone else in danger.  Belters didn't care if someone drank themselves silly every night, but they’d take immediate steps if the drunkard tried to pilot a shuttlecraft while drunk.

We were silly bastards and bitches back then, she thought, ruefully.  Out on leave, away from our parents and commanders ... we wanted fun and we didn't care about the price.

She watched Alan drink, torn between amusement and a peculiar kind of guilt.  Alan had been cooling his heels in jail, not sunning himself on a beach.  The Firewater was probably the first alcohol he’d had for five years, perhaps longer.  And he was gulping it down as though it truly was water.  It wouldn't be long before he was completely blotto.

He isn't going to thank me for this, she told herself.  The hangover alone will feel like an elephant stamping on his skull.

She told herself, firmly, that it was necessary.  She needed to know what he’d done.  And yet ... she kicked herself, mentally.  She was the commanding officer of a starship, not some random stranger.  Duty came before anything else, even morality.  If she was prepared to pass judgment on a member of her crew, she was sure as hell prepared to get someone drunk so she could get some answers.  And yet ...

“I think you’ve had enough,” she said, as she filled his mug again.  “I drank too much when I was a young woman.”

“So did I,” Alan said, woozily.   “I smuggled two bottles of beer into the dorm when I was in school.  The headmaster found out, too late.  We’d already drunk the beer.”

“Oh dear,” Abigail said.  She felt her lips thinning in disapproval.  How old had Alan been when he’d smuggled beer into his school?  Groundpounders kept children in school until they were sixteen, at least.  They didn't seem to understand the value of a practical education.  Or the importance of allowing a child to grow up in a house filled with love.  “I hope you didn't do it when you were older.”

“I feel like a heel,” Alan said.  His voice steadied, just for a second.  “I tell my pilots not to pull the dumb shit I pulled when I was a pilot.  Do you have any idea how much dumb shit I pulled when I was a pilot?”

“I pulled a lot of dumb shit when I was a crewwoman,” Abigail said.  She wanted to encourage him to talk.  “I was lucky my uncle didn't just throw me out of the airlock.  If I hadn't been family ...”

“Family,” Alan said.  “You can't trust family, you know.”

Abigail frowned.  “They’re all I can trust,” she said.  “Who else would I trust?”

“That's what I thought,” Alan said.  He swallowed the rest of his drink, then coughed so violently that she thought he was going to throw up.  “Family.  Who can you trust, but family?  And then the bitch cheated on me.”

“The bitch?”

“My wife,” Alan said.  He put the mug down.  “She cheated on me.”

Abigail studied him for a long moment.  She’d heard of the concept of adultery, but it wasn't something the belt took particularly seriously.  Group-marriages were the norm, after all.  She wouldn't fault her husbands or wives if they wanted to have a fling outside the group, or if they wanted to bring in someone new.  It wasn't as if she could be with her partners 24/7 ...

“There I was, working my butt off to ensure a stable income for her and the kids, while she was fucking the neighbour!  That arsehole was a friend, I thought.  Who knew he was bonking my wife?  I didn't know ...”

The words came tumbling out.  “I thought she loved me.  I thought she supported my career.  And then I walk in on her being fucked by the fucker ... by that fucker Slater.  And ... and I killed her.”

Abigail recoiled in shock.  She knew that some group-marriages had broken down spectacularly, normally because some of the partners were too immature to make the relationship work, but she’d never heard of one that ended in murder.  It was horrific!  The mere thought was disgusting.  She’d had disagreements with her partners - everyone had - but she would never kill them.  The worst that could happen was an acrimonious division of the family’s wealth and permanent separation.

They put a murderer on my ship, she thought, numbly.  And not just any murderer either.

She would have been happier, she thought, if Alan had murdered a random stranger.  Or perhaps not ... she could see the navy’s logic, even if she didn’t like it.  Alan had killed once, under conditions that were unlikely to reoccur.  But to her, Alan had committed an unspeakable betrayal.  He’d turned against his own family.

And his wife’s adultery does not justify her death, Abigail thought.  Their kids grew up without either of their parents.

Perhaps it was different for groundpounders, her mind suggested.  Groundpounders were immature children, lacking the maturity and common sense of the asteroid belt.  Alan might have every right to think that he, not his wife, had been betrayed.  But it still wasn't anything like enough to excuse murder.  The groundpounders had clearly agreed.  Alan had been in jail, after all.  He’d been looking at another five years in custody before his eventual release.

She listened as the drunken words came bubbling out, feeling sick.  She'd wanted to know, hadn't she?  And now she did know.  What had the other convicts done?  Did she want to know, now?

And he wouldn’t have had anything alcoholic for years, she reminded herself, sharply.  I probably gave him far too much to drink.

She dug into her emergency kit and found a sober-up.  “Here,” she said.  She jabbed a finger at the washroom hatch.  “You can use this in there.”

Alan eyed her for a long moment, then took the tab and rose, stumbling as he walked into the bathroom.  Abigail allowed herself a sigh of relief, even though she knew she’d probably have to clean up the mess afterwards.  Thankfully, Alan didn't seem to be so far gone that he’d need help to use the injector tab, then keep his head pointed in the right direction as he threw up.  Abigail would have felt sorry for him - she’d used enough sober-ups to know she’d prefer a hangover - if she hadn't known what he’d done.  He’d murdered his wife ...

You still have to work with him, she thought.  And now ...

She sighed.  She’d needed to know.  But now she’d have to pay the price for her curiosity. 

***
Alan felt his legs tremble as he forced himself back to his feet.  His mouth tasted awful, worse than the time the matron had washed his mouth out with soap for swearing at a particularly unpleasant teacher.  The old crone had been a horror, the kind of person who should never be allowed authority over anyone.  He’d been privately delighted when she’d died, a year after he’d left the school.  The Old Boys Club had joked that the only reason anyone had attended her funeral had been to make sure she was actually dead ...

He turned on the water and washed his mouth thoroughly, spitting out the water into the toilet.  He’d drunk ... something ... and he’d gotten drunk.  Abigail had gotten him drunk and then ... and then what?  His mind wasn't quite clear.  The sober-up had chased all the alcohol out of his system, at the cost of making him feel thoroughly unwell.  A wave of guilt and self-recrimination overwhelmed him.  He’d told the pilots, time and time again, that they were not to even think about touching alcohol.  And now he'd managed to get drunk.

“Fuck,” he said.  His mouth still tasted awful.  Firewater?  Someone had probably relabelled a bottle of bleach or hull cleanser or ... something.  His thoughts were still tangled.  What the hell had he been doing?  “Fuck it!”

He turned and stumbled back into the tiny cabin.  Abigail was sitting on the bed, fully dressed.  He supposed that was a relief, at least.  There would be no embarrassed breakfasts or embarrassed screaming, not like he’d endured as a young pilot.  He’d thought his hard drinking days were over after he’d been promoted out of his cockpit.  A CAG might outrank his subordinates, but he wasn't allowed anything like as much leeway.  It didn’t seem fair, somehow.

“You murdered your wife,” Abigail said, flatly.

Alan stared back at her, too woozy to be angry.  The sober-up might have spared him a hangover - and the embarrassment of being revealed as a hypocrite - but it hadn't made him feel better.  Of course not.  That would have been too easy.  A moment later, the underlying meaning of her words dawned on him.  She knew what he’d done.  And that meant he’d told her ...

He took a breath.  The air tasted awful too.  “I know what I did.”

“Really,” Abigail said.  “You left your children without their parents ...”

“I know what I did,” Alan repeated, sharply.  His head started to throb the moment he raised his voice.  “I have had plenty of time to regret it.”

“All the regret in the world will not bring her back,” Abigail said.  “If you’d lived in the belt, you would have been executed for your crime ...”

A dozen answers ran through Alan’s head.  He said nothing.  

“Fuck it,” Abigail said.  She jerked a hand at the hatch.  “Get out.”

Alan looked down at his shirt - now stained - and then did as he was told.  Abigail hated him now ... so what?  He’d always known their working relationship would be a little strained.  They would just have to be professional about it.  He stepped outside and leaned against the bulkhead, silently grateful that it was shipboard night.  One very definite advantage of serving on an escort carrier was that there were times when most of the crew were sleeping.  A fleet carrier operated 24/7.

That’ll have to change, he told himself.  We can't afford to be caught with our pants down.

He sighed.  There was no way to hide the fact he’d fucked up.  Allowing himself to get drunk had been foolish.  And he hadn't realised the danger until it had been too late.  He was a lightweight now.  One sniff of the barmaid’s apron and his mouth had run away with him.

It was a little more than a sniff, he thought.  I drank ...

He groaned.  Not being sure of how much he’d actually drunk was not a good sign.

Shaking his head, he stumbled down the corridor.  He needed something to eat before he went back to his bunk.  A sandwich, perhaps.  Or even a ration bar.  He wasn't fussy.

And pray that Bennett never finds out about this, he thought, crossly.  That would really put the cat amongst the pigeons.

Chapter Ten

“They look as though they’re drunk,” Poddy said.  She jabbed a finger at the newly-installed display.  “Mum?”

Abigail gave her a sharp look, then cursed herself under her breath.  Poddy didn’t know ... of course she didn't know.  She’d simply looked at what passed for a starfighter formation and made a caustic remark.  Abigail made a silent promise to do something to make it up to Poddy, later.  The poor girl didn't deserve a fright.

I got someone drunk because I wanted to know what he was hiding, she reminded herself, crossly.  And what does that make me?

“It’s deliberate,” Anson said.  If he’d picked up on the sudden tension, he said nothing.  “They don’t fly in predictable formations because they’d make themselves easy targets.”

Abigail nodded, slowly.  There was no such thing as an orderly formation in space, not outside the handful of military displays.  Better to keep a wide gap between expensive starships than risk a collision.  Not that accidental collisions were that common, she had to admit.  The odds of accidentally ramming another starship were only marginally higher than the odds of flying through an asteroid field and hitting one of the asteroids.  She’d always laughed when she’d seen groundpounder depictions of the asteroid belt.  The asteroids had been so tightly clustered together that a starfighter could barely fit through the gaps.

Instead of being so far apart that you could fly every starship in the human sphere through the gap and still have room to spare, she thought, wryly.  Anyone who hits an asteroid is either blind or trying to scam the insurance company.

“It still looks bad,” Poddy said.  She glanced at her mother.  “I’d be in trouble if I flew like that.”

“You’re not trying to dodge incoming fire,” Abigail pointed out.  “And if you tried to fly Archie like a starfighter, you’d probably rip the ship apart.”

She broke off as Poddy’s console chimed.  “What’s that?”

“An important message from the Admiralty,” Poddy said.  “It’s being automatically forwarded to the XO.”

“Oh, goody,” Abigail said.  She keyed her console, bringing up the latest set of readiness reports.  “I ...”

Her console bleeped.  “What now?”

“Captain, we have finally received our official orders,” Alan said.  His voice was very steady, very calm.  If she hadn’t known he’d been drunk last night, thanks to her, she would never have believed it.  “Please could you join me down here to discuss them?”

“As you wish,” Abigail said.  She rose.  “Anson, you have the bridge.”

The CIC was as cramped as always, with Alan, his three subordinates and his shadow seated in uncomfortably small chairs.  Maddy made her way out of the compartment as Abigail entered, leaving her alone with the men.  Abigail didn't really blame her.  The compartment was uncomfortably small with four big men, let alone Maddy and Abigail herself.  She had never been claustrophobic, but part of her just wanted to insist they took the discussion somewhere else.

Alan tapped a key.  A holographic starchart appeared in front of them.

“The Multinational Fleet - eight fleet carriers, which will join four more at New Russia - is already departing the system now that the last-minute preparations have been completed,” he said.  “That will give them an overall strength of twelve carriers, two of which are ours.  The Russians will hold overall command, apparently, as they have committed six fleet carriers to the formation.  I don't think I need to remind you that this will leave them with only three carriers in home waters.”

“New Russia is also their world,” Abigail pointed out, tersely.

“Correct,” Alan said.  “Regardless, the Great Powers have decided that humanity will be making its stand at New Russia.  Updated reports suggest that alien probes have moved into a number of systems on the far side of New Russia” - he nodded to the display, indicating the red icons - “and an attack on the system itself must be imminent.  Of course, it might already have taken place.  All our reports are at least a week out of date.”

He tapped the display, again.  “The MNF will proceed at its best possible speed to New Russia, which will mean abandoning the fleet train.  Accordingly, our task - and that of five other escort carriers - is to shepherd the fleet train to New Russia.  Once we arrive, we will either be assigned to protect the system’s installations or escort a convoy on the return trip to Earth.”

Abigail did the calculations in her head.  “We’d need at least three weeks to get there,” she mused, as she studied the starchart.  “More like four, really.”

“We’ve been ordered to proceed at our best possible speed too.”  Alan looked downcast for a moment.  “Unfortunately, that will be the speed of the slowest ship in the convoy.”

“Ouch,” Abigail said.  “And if we get attacked?”

“We have orders to defend ourselves, if fired upon,” Alan said.  “If we detect their ships, we have orders to attempt to make contact.  An updated first contact packet has already been uploaded to the database.  Ideally, we should be able to talk to them, which will hopefully end the war.”

Abigail shook her head in mild disbelief.  She’d been briefed on first contact protocols when she’d assumed command, although most of the belter crews had believed they were just a waste of time and energy.  There was no such thing as aliens - and even if aliens did exist, what were the odds of an interstellar freighter making first contact?  Now, such precautions were starting to look prophetic.

“There’s no reason to assume that they’ll agree to open communications,” Savage said.  “So far, all they’ve done is point their weapons at us and open fire.”

“Pointing your weapon at someone is a form of communication,” Bennett pointed out.  “And so is opening fire.”

“I don’t think anyone in the Admiralty believes that we can convince the aliens to back off,” Alan said.  “I’d say that someone in the Houses of Parliament pushed for us to try to make peaceful contact, even if the aliens show no apparent interest in it.”

“So we are being put at risk because some political oxygen thief wants to feel good about himself,” Abigail growled.  The belt, at least, demanded a certain level of competence from its leaders.  “Are we allowed to fire first?”

“If we believe we’re under threat,” Alan said.  He shot her an unreadable look.  “That will be your call, Captain.”

“Thank you,” Abigail said, sourly.  “When do they want us to depart?”

“Yesterday,” Savage said.

“The fleet train is moving to the RV point now,” Alan said.  He didn't look pleased, just for a second.  “We’ll link up with them in a couple of hours, then depart when Commodore Banks says so.”

“Joy,” Abigail said.  She’d never liked flying in convoy.  It hadn't been necessary very often, save for a handful of drills.  Space pirates were the stuff of pulp fiction and bad movies that were no more realistic than the muscles and chests displayed by the actors.  But then, aliens had been the stuff of bad fiction only a few weeks ago.  “Do you know Commodore Banks?”

“He’s CO of HMAS Melbourne,” Alan said.  “Australian, not British.  Other than that ... I’ve never met the man.  He’ll have a good record if they put him in charge of an oversized light cruiser, but” - he shrugged - “read the files.  I dare say they’ll be more informative.”

“As long as he isn't one of those officers who think us merchants are all smuggling something,” Abigail said.  “That might be bad.”

“It might,” Alan agreed.  “Remind your crew to make sure they update their wills before we depart.  The odds are not on our side.”

Abigail nodded, tightly.  “Is there anything else?”

“I’ll be recalling the starfighters shortly,” Alan said.  “We’ll continue drills as we plod our merry way to New Russia.”

“Very good,” Abigail said.

She turned and left the compartment, keying her wristcom as she made her way back to the bridge.  It was a relief to finally have orders, she thought, even though they were going to be away from their homes for at least two months.  She’d hoped she could swing a trip to Ceres, but the Royal Navy hadn't been interested in ensuring her crewers got some shore leave somewhere away from their ship.  VR had its limitations, after all.  No matter how detailed it was, there was no way to forget that the user was on a cramped starship.

“We’ll be departing in two hours,” she said, as she entered the bridge.  “If any of you want to record a final message, do it now.”

She leaned back in her chair and watched as word spread rapidly through the ship.  If nothing else, the constant series of orders - and replacement orders - had ensured that her ship was ready to depart at a moment’s notice.  The starfighters were already returning to the ship, landing - one by one - in the hangar bay.  She grimaced as she silently calculated just how long it would take to recover all twenty-four fighters.  Doing that while taking fire - or waiting to cross a tramline - would be a nightmare.  They might have to abandon some of their pilots just to save the ship.

Unless we have them latch onto the hull, she thought.  It was theoretically possible.  But that would be dangerous too.

Her console bleeped.  “I’ve not gotten the final set of supplies from the station,” Vassilios Drakopoulos said, grimly.  “Should we be pressing them?”

“Yeah,” Abigail said.  In theory, they could operate without so many spare parts, but in practice ... a single failure might doom the entire ship.  She had no illusions about how highly the Royal Navy valued her ship - they wouldn't have given her a murderer for an XO if they considered her anything other than expendable - but she liked to think that her crew were worth a little more.  “Send me the request.  I’ll forward it to them.”

Someone had definitely lit a fire under the beancounters, she thought, as the two hours ticked steadily away.  She’d expected a fight, but instead the transfer was authorised within seconds.  A team of dockyard workers even moved the pallet to Haddock, rather than waste time scrabbling over who’d have the honour of doing the work.  The spare parts were neatly stowed away, just as the timer reached zero.  It was time to go.

“Anson, set course for the RV point,” she ordered, as soon as she’d checked with Alan.  “And take us out.”

“Aye, Captain,” Anson said.

Abigail felt her heart starting to pound in her chest as a low quiver ran through the ship.  She kept a wary eye on the status displays, trying to reassure herself that everything was going to be fine.  The dockyard workers had done a good job convincing equipment from several different eras to work together, but she was too experienced a spacer to believe that it would work perfectly.  A tiny error in the programming nodes might cause the entire system to crash, no matter how many precautions had been worked into the system.  Hell, too many precautions might bring the system down by themselves.  And if that happened while they were a long way from help, they might be in real trouble.

There’s no might about it, she thought, as they slipped away from the asteroid.  We will be in trouble.  

She keyed her console, bringing up the long-range sensor display.  The military-grade sensors were good, good enough that she was seriously tempted to try to keep them after their military service was over.  Hundreds of starships, intersystem spacecraft and shuttles were clearly visible on the sensors, making their way backwards and forwards across the Sol System.  Tiny icons followed them, warning of time delays and potentially inaccurate projections.  Abigail felt a flicker of contempt, mingled with amusement.  Belters didn't need computers to tell them about the damned time delay!

“We’ll be at our destination in three hours,” Anson said.  “Unless you want to redline the drive ...”

“Bad idea,” Abigail said, flatly.  They’d been assured that the compensators could handle the acceleration, but one failure and everyone onboard would be smashed against the nearest bulkhead.   There were plenty of redundancies worked into the system, yet it wasn't something she was inclined to test.  “Keep us moving safely, please.”

She leaned back in her chair and forced herself to relax.  It wasn't easy.  They were moving at a speed most groundpounders would have found unimaginable, yet they were crawling along compared to a warship - or a starfighter.  HMAS Melbourne could give Haddock a few hours start and still overhaul her before she reached safety.  It was hard to believe the aliens couldn't catch them either, which meant ...

We’ll be a magnet for trouble, she thought.  And as long as we soak up missiles aimed at the bigger ships, the Admiralty won’t care.

“Captain,” Drakopoulos said.  His face appeared in front of her.  “The drives appear to be living up to their promises.”

“Very good,” Abigail said.  She sat upright, crossly.  “And the power cores?”

“They appear to be working at an acceptable level,” Drakopoulos said.  He didn't sound particularly pleased.  “But you know my concerns.”

Abigail nodded, curtly.  A rule of thumb - a very basic rule of thumb - was never to rely on anything the crew couldn’t fix if it broke.  Fixing a fusion core onboard ship was a nightmare, but being stranded in interstellar space would be worse.  But the latest generation of fusion cores were designed to be impossible to repair, at least without specialised - and extremely expensive - tools.  Drakopoulos had objected, strongly, to having them installed on the starship.  If the navy hadn't had her by the short hairs, Abigail would have objected too.

“We can rely on batteries long enough to get us back to safety,” she said.  That wouldn't be pleasant - everything would have to be cut back to the bare minimum - but it was the only way to stay alive.  “Make sure the power cells remain charged.”

“Aye, Captain,” Drakopoulos said.

His face vanished.  Abigail sighed and reached for her datapad, bringing up the raw data.  The newer systems all appeared to be operating according to projections, something that worried her more than she cared to admit.  Nothing was perfect, not even military-grade starship components.  Experience told her that something was going to fail, sooner rather than later.  And when it did, it would fail at the worst possible time.  

Maybe we’ll stress-test them later, she thought.  That might tell us something useful.

The display changed as Haddock approached the convoy.  It was an impressive sight, even though the cynical part of Abigail’s mind insisted that another word for convoy was target.  Forty freighters, five other escort carriers and a trio of warships ... perhaps they were enough to beat off an alien attack, perhaps not.  She couldn't help wondering if sneaking the freighters through individually would be a better idea.  Hiding the freighters in the interstellar void would make them immensely difficult to detect.

“We’re being hailed,” Poddy said.  “On screen?”

“Yes, please,” Abigail said.

She straightened, reluctantly, when a middle-aged man in military uniform materialised in front of her.  His uniform was similar to the Royal Navy’s, but different enough to make it clear that it wasn't the same navy.  His brown hair was barely visible under a peaked cap ...

“Captain Harrison,” the man said.  He had an odd accent, one she couldn't place.  “I am Commodore Banks, Leo Banks.  Thank you for joining us.”

“You’re most welcome,” Abigail said.  “Where do you want us?”

“My staff will send you the details,” Banks informed her.  “I just wished to welcome you personally.”

They exchanged a few more pieces of small-talk before Banks withdrew, closing the connection.  Abigail wasn't sure if she should be flattered or concerned that Banks had called her personally.  It wasn't as if they had any real connection, after all.  But then, she wasn't a naval officer by career.  Banks might have thought it would be better to be polite to her rather than risk causing offense.

Which makes him more or less unique, she thought, wryly.  Every other military officer I’ve met has been rather full of himself.

“Captain,” Poddy said.  She glanced back, indicating her console.  “I’ve received our orders.”

Abigail stood and peered over Poddy’s shoulder.  Haddock had been assigned to a position at the rear of the formation, covering the other Workhorses.  She wondered, absently, if someone thought they were meant to be a Q-Ship, then dismissed the thought.  Haddock could no longer pass for a harmless freighter.  The starfighter launching tube was a direct giveaway.  

And the weapons and sensor blisters on our hull, she told herself.  Even from a distance, Haddock no longer looked harmless.  And our power signature is different too.

“Take us into formation,” she ordered, shortly.  Thankfully, they weren't expected to follow a perfect formation.  Banks had a working brain, if nothing else.  Freighters - and converted  carriers - were hardly designed to turn on a dime.  “And then inform the XO of our updated orders.”

“I can take them in person,” Anson said.  “He told me I could use the simulators while the pilots were outside the ship.”

Abigail frowned.  She didn't want Anson and Alan to become friendly.  And yet, she had no way to stop it without revealing far too much.  Hopefully, a few hours in the simulators would convince Anson that he didn’t want to be a starfighter pilot.  It wasn't as if he was flying a worker bee or orbital shuttle.  A starfighter would be far less forgiving of mistakes.

And if he does want to join after all, she told herself, he can go to the training centre instead of learning here.

“Sure,” she said.  “But wait until we’re in position.”