Vanguard

(Ark Royal, Book VII)

Christopher G. Nuttall

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

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Cover by Justin Adams

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Cover Blurb

The third trilogy in the hit ‘Ark Royal’ series begins now!

HMS Vanguard is the most powerful battleship ever to be commissioned by the Royal Navy, but she is not a happy ship.  Her commanding officer is eccentric, rarely seen on the bridge; her former XO has deserted his post and her first middy is resentful because he hasn't been promoted as he deserves ...

But when a first contact mission goes badly wrong, HMS Vanguard and her crew are plunged into an interstellar war against a new and deadly alien threat.  

And if they don’t make it back to friendly space in time, they will merely be the first to die in a new interstellar war.

[Like my other self-published Kindle books, Vanguard is DRM-free.  You may reformat it as you choose.  There is a large sample of the text – and my other books – on my site: chrishanger.net.  Try before you buy.]

Author’s Note

I wrote Vanguard to be as stand-alone as possible; the only major character to have appeared before is Prince Henry, who was a fairly major character in The Nelson Touch and The Trafalgar Gambit.  All you really need to know about him is that he was a starfighter pilot during the First Interstellar War (with the Tadpoles) who got captured and played a major role in peace talks.  Since then, he has been assigned to Tadpole Prime as Earth’s Ambassador.

As always, reviews, comments and suchlike are warmly welcomed.

Thank you

CGN

Dedication

To the men and women of Britain’s armed forces.

Prologue

“Captain,” Commander Katy Shaw said.  “We are ready to go where no man has gone before.”

Captain Francis Preston snorted, rudely.  HMS Magellan and HMS Livingston had been probing the tramlines before Tadpole space for the last six months, only to find nothing beyond a pair of uninhabited worlds that would probably be turned into joint colonies.  Nothing to sniff at, to be fair - the crew would be able to claim a bonus from the Survey Service - but nothing to shake the universe either.

“Raise Captain Archer,” he said, sitting upright in his command chair.  “Inform him that we will jump through the tramline in” - he glanced at his console - “ten minutes.”

“Aye, sir,” Katy said.

Francis nodded, then looked around the bridge.  The younger members of the crew, their enthusiasm undiminished by six months of nothingness, looked excited, while the older crewmen were checking and rechecking their consoles as they prepared for the jump.  It was rare for a previously undiscovered tramline to throw up any surprises, but several survey ships had set out on exploration missions and vanished, somewhere in the trackless wastes of interstellar space.  Who knew?  The tramline could lead to anything.

“Captain Archer acknowledges, sir,” the communications officer said.  “He says he still thinks you cheated at cards.”

“Sore loser,” Francis commented.  He and Captain Archer had played cards for the right to take point as the survey ships moved onwards and he’d won.  “Tell him to hold position and wait for our return.”

“Aye, sir,” the communications officer said.

Francis learned forward.  “Take us into stealth,” he ordered.  “And then set course for the tramline.”

He let out a breath as the display dimmed, slightly.  There was no way to know what was at the other end of a tramline without jumping through, which was why survey ships tended to operate in pairs.  If Magellan failed to return, Livingston would head back to the nearest military base at once, rather than try to follow her sister ship.  It would be tough on Magellan if she needed assistance, but standing orders permitted no ambiguity.  Maybe she’d fallen right into a black hole - it was theoretically possible - or maybe she’d run into a hostile alien race.  It was the latter thought that kept the Admiralty’s planners up at night.  Humanity’s first encounter with an alien race had almost been its last.

But the odds against meeting another spacefaring race are considerable, he reminded himself, firmly.  It was sheer luck that we ran into the Tadpoles when they were at relatively the same stage of development.

He pushed the thought aside as the display flickered, warning him that they had entered the tramline.  “Drive online, sir,” the helmsman reported.  “Gravity flux nominal.  I don’t think there are any surprises waiting for us in this tramline.”

“Good,” Francis grunted.  He glanced at the green-lit status display, then up at his XO, who nodded.  “Jump!”

The starship shivered, slightly, as she jumped down the tramline and into the unexplored system.  Francis let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding as the display flickered and then rebooted, displaying a standard G2 yellow star.  Most transits were routine, thanks to the wonders of modern technology, but an unexplored tramline might have an unexpected gravimetric flux that could cripple or destroy a ship.  The odds were staggeringly against it, yet there was one tramline, right on the other side of explored space, that had eaten every starship that jumped down it.  No one had returned to tell the tale.

“Jump complete, sir,” the helmsman said.  “There were no problems.”

“Good,” Francis said.  “I ...”

“Captain,” the tactical officer interrupted.  “I think you should take a look at this!”

Francis rose from his command chair and hurried over to the tactical console.  There were at least two planets within the system’s life-bearing zone, both surrounded by the yellow icons of unidentified ships, space stations and radio sources.  Hundreds of icons were swarming through the system, some clearly heading to an asteroid field and others making their steady way towards a gas giant.  He felt his heart start to pound in his chest as the computers struggled to match the unknowns to something in its memory ... and failed.  They were staring at a whole new spacefaring race.

“Cloak us,” he snapped.  Stealth mode rendered the ship almost undetectable, but there was no point in taking chances.  Standing orders were very clear.  No alien race, particularly one that could pose a genuine threat to humanity, was to know the survey ship was present until the various human governments could decide what to do about it.  “Tactical analysis?”

“Impossible to be sure at this distance, sir, but I’d say their tech base is on a par with ours,” the tactical officer said.  “I’m definitely picking up drive fields ... they’ve got bases scattered right across the system.”

Katy leaned forward.  “Are they using the tramlines?”

“I’m not sure,” the tactical officer admitted.  “There’re three more in the system itself ...”

Francis closed his eyes as he thought, rapidly.  A race on the same level as mankind - and the Tadpoles - should certainly know about the tramlines that allowed starships to jump from system to system without having to cross the gulf of interstellar space.  Mastering drive fields should certainly give them the technology to locate the tramlines and jump through them ... unless, of course, they’d somehow managed to miss one or more applications of the technology.  Humanity had certainly missed at least one before the First Interstellar War.

“We didn't see any sign of them in the previous system,” he mused.  “Did we?”

“No, sir,” Katy said.  “We’ll go through the data again, but we were thorough.  I don’t think we missed anything.”

“And if they don’t have access to the tramlines, they won’t be able to reach the system,” Francis said.  He opened his eyes and studied the display.  “They won’t be able to reach us.”

“Or they may have decided the system was useless,” Katy pointed out.  “There was only one planet, sir, and it made Pluto look big.”

Francis shrugged.  There were quite a few human groups that would have considered the system a perfect place for a settlement, one nicely isolated from the temptations of the modern world.  But then, maybe they didn’t have access to the tramlines ...or, perhaps, to the weaker tramlines the Tadpoles had learned to access.  They might not have been able to progress much further even after they left their system.  

Or they might have been able to access other systems through the other tramlines, he mused, and merely decided to leave a seemingly-useless system alone.

He glanced at the communications officer.  “Have you been able to pull anything useful from their radio chatter?”

“Not as yet, sir,” the communications officer said.  “I was expecting something visual, but everything we’ve picked up appears to be encrypted.”

“Or they’re so alien that we can't understand their chatter,” Katy offered.  “It took us months to glean anything from captured Tadpole databases.”

Francis nodded, slowly.

“Tactical,” he said, “do you believe we are in any danger of being discovered?”

“No, sir,” the tactical officer said.  “Unless they have some detection system I’ve never heard of, Captain, we should be safe.”

Francis felt a stab of disappointment.  Standing orders strictly forbade making any attempt at First Contact without heavy reinforcements on call, just in case the encounter turned violent, unless there was no other choice.  If the aliens had discovered Magellan, he could have attempted to communicate with them and ensured his place in the history books ...

“Then we will reverse course and jump back out of the system,” he said.  “Once we link up with Livingston, we’ll make our way back to the nearest naval base.  The Admiralty will put together a contact mission and, hopefully, we’ll be on it.”

“Aye, sir,” the helmsman said.

Katy frowned.  “The nearest large-scale base is a Tadpole base, sir.”

Francis nodded.  The Tadpoles had shown no real interest in the pre-space Vesy, but he was sure they’d be more than interested in a spacefaring race.  And he was fairly sure they wouldn't try to keep the information for themselves.  They just didn't seem to have the same capability for deception as humans.

He took one last look at the display, watching the alien ships, then nodded to himself.  

“We’ll be back,” he said, as Magellan approached the tramline.  “And we’ll have a great many friends with us.”

Chapter One

“Welcome back, Susan,” Mrs Blackthorn said.  “Or should I call you Commander?”

“Susan is fine,” Commander Susan Onarina said, as she clambered out of the car.  “It would feel strange to have you address me by rank.”

“Hanover Towers is diminished by your absence,” Mrs Blackthorn assured her.  “But we are proud of your success.”

Susan kept the doubt off her face with the ease of long practice.  She would have been surprised if Mrs Blackthorn remembered her as anything more than a trouble-maker, one of the girls who had been sent to her for disciplinary action.  Her father had been a much-loved, but rather roguish immigrant, her mother a shop-girl with few prospects ... Susan had been a commoner in a school where a good third of the students had aristocratic, government or military connections.  She had a feeling the headmistress had probably downloaded and read her school reports just so she could pretend to remember Susan.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she lied, smoothly.  School hadn't been that bad, all things considered, but she’d never really seen it as a gateway to wealth, power and success.  That had come at the Luna Academy.  “And I’m glad to be back.”

She sighed inwardly as she looked up at the towering school.  It had struck her as a castle, when she’d first arrived as a twelve-year-old, but to her older eyes it looked as if its builders had been trying too hard.  Four towers, two for boys and two for girls, surrounding a mansion, set within the Scottish Highlands.  She winced in remembered pain at memories of long hikes over the mountains, although she had to admit that some of them had been almost enjoyable.  There was definitely something to be said for a long walk followed by fish and chips in a cafe near St. Andrews.  

And I never tried to skive off, she thought, ruefully.  Father would have been disappointed in me.

“I’m sure you remember the way,” Mrs Blackthorn said, breaking into her thoughts.  “But I’d be happy to escort you, if you wish.”

“Please,” Susan said.  She rather doubted she’d be allowed to wander the school alone, even if she had been invited.  Hanover Towers took its security seriously.  The guards at the gates had checked her paperwork twice and then searched the car before allowing her to enter the complex.  “It’s probably changed since I was last here.”

“The more things change, the more they stay the same,” Mrs Blackthorn said, primly.  “Follow me.”

Susan nodded, curtly, as she caught sight of their reflection in the mirrored door.  They made an odd couple; Mrs Blackthorn prim and proper, her entire bearing projecting the image of aristocracy boiled down to its essence, Susan herself tall and dark, wearing her naval dress uniform and her dark hair tied into a long braid that fell over her shoulder and down past her breasts.  It hadn't been easy to blend in, not when she was the daughter of an immigrant; she’d been sent to the form mistress twice for fighting before she’d found a group of friends of her own.  The Troubles had ensured that the ugly curse of racism still bubbled, just under the surface ...

She sucked in her breath as they entered the Welcome Hall, where a large portrait of Sir Charles Hanover hung in a place of honour, flanked by portraits of King Charles IV and Princess Elizabeth, the heir presumptive to the throne.  Susan had met the princess, during a formal visit to the Luna Academy, but she couldn't say she knew the lady, while too many of her schoolmates could.  She sighed, remembering old pains, and then pushed them away firmly.  Far too many of her former schoolmates had died during the war.

“I’ve arranged for the entire school to be present during your speech,” Mrs Blackthorn prattled, distracting Susan from her thoughts.  “And then I thought you might want to have a more informal chat with some of the older students, the ones contemplating a naval career in the next couple of years.  You can have that in one of the meeting rooms, Susan, and I will have tea and cakes sent in.”

“Thank you,” Susan said, tightly.  It hadn't been her idea to attend.  Someone at the Admiralty had noted that she was not only a former student, but on leave and ... requested ... that she give up a day to visit her alma mater and address the students on the wonders of a naval career.  “I’ll do my best to answer their questions.”

Mrs Blackthorn nodded and led her through another wooden door and down a long corridor towards the Great Hall.  Unless something had changed since her time, Susan recalled, students weren't permitted in the staff corridor unless they were escorted by a tutor or given a disciplinary slip.  Being caught in the corridor - or in the wrong tower - would get a student in hot water, but that hadn't stopped the more daring students trying to run through the corridor without being caught.  She’d done it herself a few times before she’d found more interesting ways to get in trouble.

And there would have been no thrill if it wasn't forbidden, she thought, ruefully.  Did I really believe that it was daring to run down a corridor?

Susan smiled at the thought, then pasted a fixed smile on her face as Mrs Blackthorn led her through the doors and into a sideroom.  She checked her appearance in the mirror as the headmistress hastily consulted with two of her tutors, then sat down to wait.  It was nearly twenty minutes before she heard Mrs Blackthorn introducing her to the students, detailing her career in glowing terms.  She made it sound as if naval commander meant Susan was in charge of the entire navy!

At least she didn't have the students waiting all morning, she told herself.  It had happened, more than once, when she’d been a student.  The early relief at skipping classes had rapidly been replaced by boredom.  She’d managed to land herself in hot water, the second time, by smuggling an adventure novel into the room.  I guess I’m not that important.

She braced herself as Mrs Blackthorn’s speech came to an end, waited for her cue and then strode up onto the stage.  A ripple of applause greeted her as she took the podium and peered down at the students.  They all looked so young, wearing the red blazers, white shirts and black skirts or trousers that she recalled from her own schooling.   Boys and girls were firmly segregated, even outside the Great Hall; they attended different classes, ate at different times and slept in separate towers.  Finding a few minutes alone with a potential boyfriend had always been a challenge.  

But it was worth it, she thought, as her gaze swept the room.  It was definitely worth it.

“Good morning,” she said.  She was tempted to make a comment about never giving a speech to an unwilling audience in her life - and then asking if anyone wanted to leave - but she knew it would only get back to the Admiralty.  Mrs Blackthorn would bitch to one of the Old Boys and her career would go into the flusher.  “I am Commander Susan Onarina, former tactical officer on HMS Cornwall and currently in line for Executive Officer of HMS Edinburgh.  Mrs Blackthorn” - she nodded towards the headmistress - “has asked me to tell you about a naval career.”

She paused, studying the room.  Most of the faces looking back at her, scrubbed clean of make-up or anything that might give their faces a little individuality, were unquestionably white, but here and there were a handful of darker faces, girls and boys descended from immigrants like her father.  The Troubles had a great deal to answer for, she knew; being a young woman without connections at the naval academy would have been quite hard enough without her fellow cadets eying her suspiciously.  Her father had worked hard to be more British than the British and even he had never quite been accepted.  She had never known true acceptance until she’d passed the Middy Test.

“Apparently, there’s a great deal of wondrous things I am meant to tell you about the navy,” she continued, “and some of them are even true.  You will see sights that no ground-pounder will ever see, if you join the navy, and you will get the chance to be part of something far greater than yourself.  I have never regretted joining the navy and I never will.  But I’m not going to sugar-coat it for you.  The navy can also be the hardest, the most dangerous, career in the galaxy.

“Space is unforgiving.  One single mistake, just one, born of tiredness or ignorance, can get you killed.  Two of my fellow cadets, in the first year at the academy, were killed, one through carelessness, one through a mistake on the part of another cadet.  Space doesn't care about the colour of your skin” - she held her dark hand up for them to see - “or about your connections.  The cold equations rule.  If you mess with space, space will kill you.

“If you wish to become an officer, you have to endure four years in the academy, in sleeping compartments which make sixth-year bedrooms look huge.  And then you will have two to three years as a midshipman, sleeping in even smaller compartments.  You will spend half your time as grimy and smelly, if not worse, as you were after completing a ten-mile hike around the countryside.  And then, after you hopefully learn the right lessons, you will be promoted to lieutenant and your career will begin in earnest.

“If you wish to become a starfighter pilot, you will only have a single year of training before you get your fancy uniform and an assignment to a fleet carrier.  But you’ll also have a far greater chance of being killed, if we have to go back to war.  A starfighter pilot has a one in three chance of dying during his first skirmish with the enemy.  And very few starfighter pilots, even if they survive, can build a career in the navy.  My first commanding officer was one of the few - the very few - who did.

“If you wish to become a crewman ...”

Susan paused.  “I doubt that most of you do want to become a crewman, but they are the mainstay of the fleet.  It is the crew who keep the ship going, not the officers, no matter how much gold braid they have on their uniforms.  And a crewman is often in the best position to make a spacefaring career after they leave the navy.  They’re the ones who master the technical skills merchant ships need.

“Life in the navy isn't all fun and games.  Forget the movies, particularly the trio starring Stellar Star; life in the navy is hard, dirty and the penalties for mistakes terrifyingly high.  But it’s worth it.  You may be among the first to meet a brand new alien race or you may fight to defend Earth or Britannia if another war breaks out.  Thank you for your time.”

She saluted the students, then turned and marched off the stage as they began to clap, much louder this time.  Mrs Blackthorn shot her a dirty look as she walked back into the sideroom, either out of irritation at how Susan had told the truth or simple annoyance that Susan hadn't blathered on and on for at least an hour, like most of the other guests she’d been forced to listen to as a student.  Now the students would have to be given a free period or sent back to class ...

Mrs Blackthorn entered the sideroom and closed the door, firmly.  “A bit blunt, weren’t you?”

“They can download all the sweet-talking recruitment blather from the datanet, if they wish,” Susan said, reminding herself that she was no longer a student and Mrs Blackthorn couldn’t give her detention any longer.   “I told them the truth.”

“Some of them will give up on the thought of a naval career,” Mrs Blackthorn said, sharply.

“Good,” Susan said.  “A naval life is not for everyone, Headmistress.  We simply don’t have the time, at the academy, to root out those who simply do not belong before they make a mistake and kill themselves.  The natural arrogance of the aristocracy has no place in space.”

She remembered the young girls and boys looking up at her and shuddered, inwardly.  The school’s uniform policy ensured that there were no differences, on the surface, but the rich and well-connected kids had always had an advantage.  Students like Susan had worked hard, knowing that some of their fellow students would always be elevated above their heads, even if their grades were pathetic.  She knew she was lucky not to give in to bitterness ... and that others hadn't been so lucky.  One of her fellow students had deserted his country in the years following the war.

“Be that as it may,” Mrs Blackthorn said, “you are still required to talk to students who are interested in a naval career.  If you will follow me ...?”

Susan shrugged and followed the older woman through another maze of corridors and into a comfortable sitting room.  There were seventeen students waiting for her, all in their final two years if the markings on their blazers were the same as they were in her day.  She would have been surprised to encounter any younger pupils, even though they might well be interested.  The upper years guarded career meetings with as much determination as aristocrats defended their clubs from the hoi polloi.  Any younger student would probably be given a clip around his ear and told to piss off.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, as she took a seat.  “If you have any questions, I am at your disposal for the rest of the morning.”

She waited, patiently, as a grim-faced teenage girl wearing a maid’s uniform served tea and cakes, passing out scones and jam with an unmistakable lack of enthusiasm.  She was probably on detention, Susan guessed; Mrs Blackthorn had a nasty sense of humour when it came to handing out detentions and making an aristocratic brat serve the tea was precisely what she’d do.  Luckily for her, the headmistress’s looming presence kept the students from mocking her or creating a mess for the poor girl to clean up.

“My father is the captain of a starship,” one pimple-faced youth said.  Judging by his posh accent, he’d been born or raised in London.  “He says he can get me onto his ship, if I do well at the academy.”

“That is ... unlikely,” Susan told him, bluntly.  The Old Boys Network pervaded the navy, much to her frustration, but it had its limits.  “You’ll almost certainly never be under your father’s command.”

“But he’s a captain,” the youth whined.  “Surely he can get whoever he wants ...”

Susan smirked, inwardly.  “First, you have to graduate from the academy,” she said.  The movies, particularly the one featuring a midshipman with even more pimples than the boy facing her, had a great deal to answer for.  “An acting midshipman who doesn't have an academy record, no matter how clever he is, will not be promoted above that spot - technically, he shouldn't have it in the first place.  Then you are assigned to the ship that needs you, not the ship that wants you.  You will only be sent to your father’s ship if he has a valid need that can only be filled by you.”

She shrugged and took a sip of her tea.  “But really, would you want to serve on your father’s ship?”

“I have a different question,” one of the girls said.  “How do you cope sleeping with the men?”

Susan bit off the comment that came to mind as two of the boys snickered and Mrs Blackthorn’s face narrowed in disapproval.  “I assume you mean sharing quarters, instead of sharing bodily fluids,” she said.  “You get used to it, really.  Frankly, in the academy, you are normally too tired to do anything beyond hitting your bunk and going to sleep.  Happiness, as they say, consists of getting enough sleep.”

She smiled, rather coolly.  “Trust me on this,” she added.  “You’ll have worse problems than spotting a naked man - or being seen naked yourself.”

“But it’s indecent,” the girl protested.  “I can't share a room with boys!”

“Then don’t join the navy,” Susan snapped.  She rather doubted the girl really wanted a naval career, but it was quite possible that her family wanted her to serve.  “The navy doesn’t change its requirements based on your preferences, I’m afraid.  It only changes when there is a solid reason to change.”

Like the Battle of New Russia, she added, silently.  She'd been in the academy at the time, but the she’d been just as scared as her tutors when the news sank in.  We didn't just get beaten, we got exterminated.

“I believe that naval officers sometimes write letters of recommendation for prospective cadets,” another boy asked.  “How do I get one?”

“You don’t,” Susan said, flatly.  “Letters of recommendation can only be written after the officer in question knows you in a professional capacity.  You won’t get one unless you are a crewman who wants to become an officer.  If your father” - she nodded to the first boy - “wrote one for you, it would get him in deep shit.”

“That isn't fair,” the boy objected.  “They’ll have an advantage ...”

“Life isn't fair,” Susan said.  “And really, don’t you think a crewman with ten years of experience will look better to the admissions board than an untrained boy?”

She looked up, surprised, as Mrs Blackthorn left the room, then returned, moments later, carrying a datapad, which she held out to Susan.  Susan took it and blinked in surprise.  It was a recall order, summoning her back to London as soon as possible.  Someone had even arranged for her to fly via military jet from the nearest RAF base.

“It seems I have to leave,” she said, rising.  Had Mrs Blackthorn already filed a complaint?  It was possible, but unlikely.  “I’ll hopefully get another chance to speak with you later in the year.”

“Thank you for coming,” Mrs Blackthorn said, once they were outside the building.  “But really ... did you have to be so blunt?”

“It’s tough out there,” Susan said, as she climbed into her car.  “And in space, worse things can happen than writing lines until your hand drops off.”

Chapter Two

“Thank you for coming at such short notice, Commander,” Commodore Sir Travis Younghusband said, once he’d called Susan into his office and pointed her to a chair.  “I knew you were due at least nine days of leave and I apologise for disrupting it and calling you to London.”

“Thank you, sir,” Susan said.  It had to be bad.  Senior officers were rarely apologetic, even if they had dragged her all the way to London from Scotland.  The only consolation was that she probably wasn't in trouble for something.  “Hopefully, it will impress on the little children the importance of a naval career.”

“And how you can be jerked around at will by some jerk of a staff officer,” Sir Travis said, dryly.  He’d been a starship officer himself before transferring to the personnel department, Susan recalled; he probably knew precisely how she was feeling.  “Do you think there were any good prospects among the Hanover seniors?”

“I didn't have enough time to take their measures, sir,” Susan said, truthfully.  “There were the usual handful of stupid questions, but a year at the academy would knock them into shape or get them on the shuttle back home.”

“Quite, quite,” Sir Travis said.  He leaned back in his chair, his face taking on a grave expression.  “Do you know Commander Bothell, Gordon Bothell?”

Susan hesitated, then shook her head.  “I believe there was a Bothell in the class above me at the academy,” she said, “but I don’t recall much about him.”

“It probably wasn't the same person,” Sir Travis said.  “Commander Bothell left the academy four years before yourself.  But your paths may have crossed at some point since you graduated and took that posting to Warspite.”

“I don’t recall, sir,” Susan said.  If Bothell had left the academy in the same year she’d started, he’d almost certainly have become a lieutenant before she’d graduated herself.  It was unlikely they’d share confidences, if they ever met.  “May I ask what this is about?”

Sir Travis sighed.  “Commander Bothell went on leave two weeks ago,” he said.  “He was due to report back to the spaceport four days ago, but failed to show.  We ran through the standard procedures - we checked the local hospitals, police records, even sent a car around to his house - and drew a blank.  Bothell appears to have completely vanished.”

Susan blinked.  The chaos caused by the Bombardment of Earth had helped quite a few people to vanish - hundreds of thousands of records had simply been destroyed and entire communities had been uprooted - but that had been over thirteen years ago.  Why would a naval officer simply vanish?  She’d been in the navy long enough to know that accidents happened, that young midshipmen might oversleep after their first visit to the red light district ... and yet, a Commander should have known the dangers.  Had something happened to him?

And what, she asked herself, does it have to do with me?

“Commander Bothell was serving as the XO of HMS Vanguard,” Sir Travis said, flatly.  “His sudden absence leaves us with a hole that needs to be filled.  Vanguard’s second officer has been filling in the gap as best as he can, but he’s the tactical officer; the battleship needs both slots filled.  I know you were slated for Edinburgh, but would you be willing to take up the post on Vanguard instead?”

Susan thought fast.  Vanguard - the Royal Navy’s giant battleship - would be an order of magnitude more complex than HMS Edinburgh, perhaps almost as complex as HMS Formidable.  It was a daunting prospect, all the more so as her experience as a senior officer was almost entirely based on cruisers.  And yet, if she did well, it would be a boost to her career.  There would be a good chance of receiving a command slot during the next round of promotions.  

And if I turn it down, she thought grimly, I’ll never be offered promotion again.

“I would be honoured,” she said, out loud.  “How long was Commander Bothell on Vanguard?”

“Nine months,” Sir Travis said.  He picked a datachip off the desk and held it out to her.  “I suspect he will have had plenty of time to organise everything to suit himself, while you’ll have to do everything in a hurry, but his efficiency reports are first-rate.  You shouldn’t have any problems taking his place.  In the event of him turning up, of course, he will not be permitted to return to Vanguard.”

Susan nodded, curtly, as she took the chip.  A day or two late, returning from leave, might be overlooked, but a full week would raise a whole string of uncomfortable questions.  If Commander Bothell didn't have a very good excuse for not reporting in - for not even contacting the Admiralty to request compassionate leave - his career would come to a screeching halt.  He’d need a great many patrons in high places to save himself from a dishonourable discharge.  She couldn't help feeling as though she was stepping into someone else’s shoes, without the prior preparation she’d expected on Edinburgh, but it was one hell of a challenge.

“I understand, sir,” she said.

“Good,” Sir Travis said.  “Vanguard is scheduled to jump out of the system in a week to join a set of war games with the Americans.  You’ll have that long, I think, to get used to your new posting.  The Admiralty would take a dim view of the battleship being late for her first true deployment.”

“Yes, sir,” Susan said.  She glanced at the datachip in her hand, then tucked it away in her jacket.  “When do you want me to leave?”

“We’ve booked a flight for you from Heathrow, departing in two hours,” Sir Travis said, bluntly.  Any thoughts she might have had about visiting her father vanished like new-fallen snow.  “My staff has arranged a car to take you to the spaceport.”

“Thank you, sir,” Susan said.  A civilian would have found it a gross inconvenience, but like most naval officers, she travelled light.  She could draw everything she needed from the battleship’s stores, once she arrived.  “I look forward to the challenge.”

Sir Travis smiled.  “I’m glad to hear it, Commander,” he said.  He rose and held out a hand, which she shook firmly.  “And I wish you the very best of luck.”

Susan saluted, then turned and made her way out of the office and down the stairs to the vehicle pool.  A black car was already waiting for her, a junior midshipman in the driver’s seat.  Susan concealed her amusement as he jumped out of the car, gave her the snappiest salute she’d seen since she left the academy and then opened the door for her.  She would have resisted assignment to Earth with all her strength - a lack of spacefaring experience would tell against the young man, when the promotions board considered who to advance up the ladder - but if someone wanted it, who was she to tell him no?

She climbed into the back of the car, then closed the privacy blinds and activated the computer terminal as the car hummed to life.  It would take at least forty minutes to reach the spaceport, no matter what happened; indeed, if traffic had returned to its pre-war norms, it might take longer, much longer, to get to Heathrow.  The computer terminal lit up; she keyed a communications code into the panel and waited.  Five minutes later, her father’s face appeared in the display.

“Susan,” he said.  “I thought you were going back to school!”

Susan had to smile.  Romeo Onarina, her father, had immigrated to Britain from Jamaica, serving in the army before collecting his citizenship papers and marrying her mother.  He’d been in London during the bombardment, somehow keeping his wife alive, only to lose her five years later to a pointless accident.  And yet, somehow, he’d found the strength to carry on.  He was the strongest man she knew.

“I was recalled to the Admiralty,” she said.  “They’re sending me back to duty.”

Her father’s face fell.  “That quickly?”

“I’m due to lift off from Heathrow in less than two hours,” Susan said.  “I’m sorry I won’t be able to see you.”

“Duty calls,” her father said.  He cleared his throat.  “You’ll write to me, won’t you?”

Susan nodded.  Some of her fellow cadets had bitched and moaned about the requirement to write home at least once a week, yet she’d never begrudged it.  Yes, the time could have been used to study for one of the innumerable exams, but she loved her family.  The three of them had been happy together in a world that eyed immigrants with suspicion.  She’d been scared of losing touch back when she’d gone to Hanover Towers, let alone leaving Earth and heading to Luna.  Her family was all she had in the world.

“I will,” she promised.  “And I’ll try and call again before we leave orbit.”

She closed the connection, then dropped the datachip into the terminal and began to study the battleship.  HMS Vanguard had been the topic of some debate during the years following the Anglo-Indian War, although it was generally agreed that the pre-war mix of fleet carriers and destroyers was no longer adequate.  Warspite had blown an Indian carrier into a powerless hulk with a single hit, after all.  Besides, with the recent improvements in point defence, it was unlikely that any starfighter could get close enough to a starship to launch its missiles before it was destroyed.

And the fighter jocks still walk around as if they have rods up their butts, she thought, as she skimmed through the data.  Don’t they know we lost a third of our pilots during the first year of war?

She pushed the thought aside and kept reading the files, only looking up when the driver took the car through the checkpoint and into the military section of Heathrow Spaceport.  Susan thanked him as he parked outside the terminal, recovered the datachip and hurried into the building.  Thankfully, there were none of the elaborate security procedures for military personnel; the officers scanned her ID, checked her fingerprints and DNA code and then motioned her through the barrier.  It was a relief; every time she passed through the civilian side of the terminal she was always singled out for close inspections.  And it never ceased to grate.

The scars of war run deep, she reminded herself, as she glanced around the terminal.  Dozens of enlisted soldiers, spacers and airmen lounged around, reading datapads or trying to catch up on their sleep, while officers headed for their private lounge.  And no one will forget in a hurry.

She picked up a handful of items at the NAAFI, then entered the officer’s lounge and sat down to wait.  Her flight was announced only thirty minutes later, suggesting that the shuttlecraft had been waiting for her; the military, at least, wasn't wedded to the strict timetables followed by civilian craft.  She walked through the terminal, past a handful of enlisted spacers and through the gate.  It still struck her as rude to stride past the spacers - they had arrived first, after all - but she was their senior officer.  She wasn't allowed to treat them in any other way.

“Welcome onboard,” the shuttle crewman said.  She was relieved he didn’t go into the faux-stewardess routine practiced by far too many military crews.  It had been funny the first time, but after ten or so repeats it just became annoying.  “We should be docking with HMS Vanguard in three hours, forty minutes.”

Susan took her seat, buckled herself in and closed her eyes, trying to sleep.  It had been a long day and it would only get worse, once she actually boarded the battleship.  The children back at Hanover Towers would find it hard to adapt if they ever joined the navy.  It certainly felt as though they were crossing time zones, even though - technically - the Royal Navy operated on GMT.  Space Lag was a very real threat.

She must have dozed off, because the next thing she knew was hearing the pilot announce the approach to Vanguard,  Susan unbuckled herself, rose and peered through the nearest portal as the giant battleship came into view.  It would be her only chance to see an exterior view of the ship for weeks, unless she went EVA or borrowed a shuttle - and besides, she was fascinated.  The images in the files couldn't compare to a real starship.

Vanguard was massive, she noted; the files stated that the battleship was five kilometres long from prow to stern.  It was easy, as the shuttle flew closer, to pick out the four immense turrets towards the prow of the ship and, in the distance, the four rear turrets.  She’d served on Warspite, with its immense plasma cannon, but Vanguard’s main weapons were much nastier.  She doubted that anything could survive long enough to ram the ship, if the captain directed every turret that could bear on the approaching vessel.  The smaller weapons and point defences studding the hull looked almost like afterthoughts.

“She looks like a dumbbell,” one of the spacers said, behind her.

It wasn’t inaccurate, Susan thought.  The giant battleship did look like a dumbbell; indeed, she had to admit the ship looked even uglier than the old Ark Royal.  But then, beauty was of no concern, not when survivability was far more important.  The fleet carriers that had fought in the Battle of New Russia had been pretty ships, designed to impress the viewing public, but they’d failed their first combat test rather spectacularly.  Warspite hadn't been very pretty either.

She drank in the details as the shuttle approached the airlock hatch.  The hull was covered with plates of armour, each one three or four times the size of the shuttle; if they were damaged, according to the files, they could be easily replaced with new panels drawn from the starship’s stores.  A boffin had taken the solid-state armour that had protected Ark Royal and improved on it, producing a compound that was both immensely tough and far more flexible than its predecessors.  And lighter too, if she recalled correctly.  Ark Royal had about the same grace and agility as a pig in mud - she’d often been outraced by alien starships - but Vanguard should have no difficulty keeping up with the rest of the fleet.  Her drives were so powerful, according to the notes, that they’d almost torn the ship apart, the first time they’d been powered up.  She couldn't help thinking that was a problem that should have been corrected a long time before the navy actually started building the ship.

But we’ll probably be glad of the extra speed if we run into real trouble, she thought, morbidly.  There were two known alien races out in the darkness and one of them, at least, was very definitely on the same level as the human race.  And if there were two races, there would almost certainly be more.  Lose half the engine rooms and Vanguard can just keep going.

A dull thump ran through the shuttle as she docked with the battleship, followed by a flicker in the gravity as the two artificial gravity fields merged.  Susan rose to her feet at once - as the highest-ranking officer, she was entitled to embark and disembark first - and strode towards the hatch, which hissed open.  She made a mental note to review procedures, even though it should be perfectly safe.  There was a reason starships had airlocks, after all.

“Commander Onarina,” a familiar voice said.  “Welcome onboard HMS Vanguard.”

Susan smiled as she saw Lieutenant-Commander Paul Mason.  “Paul,” she said.  “It’s been a long time since Warspite.”

“It has indeed,” Mason said.  He snapped off a salute, then relaxed.  “I hear you’ve been promoted?”

Susan smirked.  “Who let the cat out of the bag?”

“I believe it was mentioned in dispatches somewhere,” Mason said.  He’d always been a joker, although several years as an officer had tempered him somewhat.  “Captain Blake wishes to see you at once, Commander.  Then I have to show you to your office and answer your questions.”

Susan nodded.  “You’ve been filling in for Bothell?”

“Yes, Commander,” Mason said.  He didn’t sound annoyed, although Susan would have been surprised if he hadn't been a little irked by the whole arrangement.  Mason would have been acting XO for three weeks, only to be pushed back when his new superior arrived.  “I have a briefing for you personally, once you’ve spoken to the captain.”

“I see,” Susan said.  It was never easy to meet a classmate from the academy when one was of superior or inferior rank.  They’d started out as equals, after all.  Hell, she was mildly surprised that Paul hadn't been promoted ahead of her.  “Please will you take me to the captain?”

“Of course, Commander,” Mason said.  He nodded to the plaque on the bulkhead - the image of a roaring lion, with the words We Lead written underneath - and then led her towards the intership car.  “I believe he’s actually been looking forward to meeting you.”

Susan frowned.  It had barely been five hours, if that, since she’d accepted the posting.  Even if Sir Travis had contacted Captain Blake at once, he wouldn't have had long to anticipate her arrival.  Of course, he might have been sent a list of prospective XOs and ordered to pick one ... she shook her head.  There was no point in worrying about it.  Captain Blake had probably served with Commander Bothell long enough to be annoyed at someone else coming in and taking the posting.

I’ll have to review their files, she told herself.  They wouldn't tell her everything, but at least they’d give her a starting point.  And then interrogate Paul when I have a moment.

“This is the bridge,” Mason said.  “And the Captain’s Ready Room is right here.”

“Thank you,” Susan said.  She pressed her fingertips against the scanner.  “I’ll meet you here, afterwards.”

Chapter Three

Captain Sir Thomas Blake looked ... nervous.

Susan studied him, as closely as she could, as she waited for the captain to stop flicking through pages on his datapad and look up at her.  He was handsome enough, she supposed, for a man in his late forties; his short brown hair had yet to turn grey, while his face was lined enough to give a hint of maturity without displaying his age.  The uniform he wore was expertly tailored, giving an impression of strength without revealing any paunch he might have had.  And yet, there was something about his bearing that belayed his appearance.  It wasn't something she could put her finger on, but it was there.

She hastily reviewed what little she knew about the captain, silently cursing her decision to study the starship itself rather than her new commanding officer.  She’d read everything she could find about HMS Edinburgh, from her post-commissioning reports to her personnel files, but she just hadn't had time to do the same for Vanguard.  Offhand, she honestly couldn't recall any officer being given so little time to prepare for a new assignment, although she knew it must have happened in the past.  Commander Bothell would hardly be the first officer to fail to report back to duty.  An accident on shore leave ...

The Blake Family was well-connected, if she recalled correctly; they enjoyed the honour of having two of the Royal Navy’s former heroes among their family.  Maybe they weren’t a first-line aristocratic family like the Fitzwilliam Family, but they definitely had connections at the highest levels.  Wasn't there a Blake on the Privy Council?  She rather suspected there was, although she had no idea just how closely related the councillor was to the captain.  It was quite possible that one was from a cadet branch of the family.  But whatever connections he had, they had proved enough to grant him command of Vanguard.  The giant battleship was hardly a garbage scow.

“Commander,” Captain Blake said.  His voice was flat, rather than the commanding baritone prospective officers had been taught to use at the academy.  “I must say I was expecting Commander Bothell to return from Earth.”

“Yes, sir,” Susan said, puzzled.  Surely Captain Blake knew that something had happened to his XO.  The Admiralty wouldn’t have forced a new XO down his throat unless his chosen XO was unavailable for some reason or another.  “I received this assignment on very short notice.”

“Commander Bothell was a good man,” Captain Blake said.  It took her several seconds to realise he was talking about his former XO in the past tense, as if the officer was dead and gone.  “You have a pair of very big shoes to fill.”

“Yes, sir,” Susan said.  Was Commander Bothell dead?  If so, how did Captain Blake know what had happened?  Or was the Captain merely treating him as if he were?  It was something to raise with the Admiralty, if she had time.  “I look forward to serving as your XO.”

“A very good man,” Captain Blake continued.  “He knew what he could handle on his own, without input from me.  I shall expect the same from you.”

“Yes, sir,” Susan said.

“Your file is quite bland,” Captain Blake added, after a moment’s pause.  “Why are you qualified to serve as my XO?”

“I was in line for Edinburgh, sir,” Susan said, unsure if she should feel insulted, embarrassed or concerned.  “I already had my promotion.”

“But you have not served as an XO previously,” Captain Blake said.  “Commander Bothell was my XO on Thunderous, prior to our joint transfer to Vanguard.”

Susan puzzled over it for a long moment.  It was rare, very rare, for a command team to remain in place for over two years, let alone survive a transfer to a new ship.  The only time she recalled it happening had been Admiral Smith and Captain Fitzwilliam and that had been in wartime.  There were simply too many opportunities for favouritism or for one career to overshadow the other.  Had Commander Bothell deserted because he’d felt his career had stalled?  It was far from impossible.

“No, sir,” she said.  Captain Blake had started to look impatient.  “I don’t pretend I know everything, sir, but I am willing to learn on the job.”

“You have to learn on the job,” Captain Blake said, curtly.  “If you fail to satisfy me, Commander, you will be returned to Earth once we complete our exercises with the Americans.”

“I understand,” Susan said.  She could see his point, but there was that undertone of ... something ... that bothered her more than she cared to admit.  “I will do my best to satisfy you.”

“Very good,” Captain Blake said.  “I believe Commander Mason has a briefing for you.  He worked closely with Commander Bothell, so he is best-placed to bring you up to speed.  Add your name to the watch roster, but make sure you are supervised for the first couple of watches.”

“Aye, sir,” Susan said, tightly.  That was an insult, although she had a nasty feeling the captain could have justified it if she’d called him on it.  She was no midshipwoman, fresh out of the academy and barely able to tie her shoelaces together; she was a naval officer with fifteen years of service under her belt.  “I’m sure Commander Mason will be happy to provide supervision, if necessary.”

She swallowed her irritation with an effort.  “Is there anything else I need to know, sir?”

“You’ll be serving on the bridge with me, rather than operating the secondary bridge,” Captain Blake said.  “I like having my XO where I can see him.”

Her, Susan thought, silently.  What the hell was going on?

“We are currently waiting for two new middies,” Captain Blake concluded.  “Once they are onboard, I’ll be inviting my new officers - including yourself - to dinner prior to our departure.  I trust you will be able to attend?”

“Yes, sir,” Susan said.  The odds of any officer declining a dinner with his commanding officer were about as low as the Admiralty promoting a midshipwoman to Grand Admiral as soon as she graduated from the academy.  “I would be delighted to attend.”

“Very good,” Captain Blake said.  “Dismissed.”

Susan saluted, turned and marched out of the cabin, her mind spinning.  What was wrong with Captain Blake?  And why were all of her instincts twitching in alarm the moment she turned her back on him?  She could understand a senior captain being concerned about an untrained XO - although she had served as Cornwall’s XO for two months when her superior had had to leave the ship for a brief period - yet his conduct had been far from professional; indeed, it had been outright insulting.  Just what had happened between the captain and his former XO?

“Commander,” Mason said, as she stepped onto the bridge.  “Do you want the grand tour or should I show you directly to my - your - office?”

“I think it would be better if you showed me to my office,” Susan said.  She needed a stiff drink - and a chat, where no one else could hear.  “I assume it’s near the bridge?”

“Near the secondary bridge,” Mason said.  He led the way through the airlock and down into Officer Country.  “You’ll discover that a great many cabins and offices are actually scattered through the hull, Commander, rather than concentrated in one place.  Vanguard is built to take a shitload of damage and keep going.  There’s no prospect of a single hit managing to take out the entire command crew.”

Susan snorted.  “Does that actually happen outside bad movies?”

“Aliens were fictional only fifteen years ago,” Mason reminded her.  “And so were space pirates.”

“I suppose,” Susan conceded.  

She rolled her eyes as they reached a stairwell and walked down to the lower decks.  The idea of space pirates had been the stuff of trashy romance novels ever since humanity had advanced into space, rather than a real-life problem.  It was impossible to keep a small starship operating without a nation or a very large corporation providing backing.  And yet, on her first voyage, Warspite had run into a small group of pirates.  It was unlikely there would be any others, she was sure, but the threat had been noted.

And it helps convince Parliament to increase the military budget, she thought, cynically.  As if there weren't enough real threats out there.

“This is your office,” Mason said, opening a hatch.  “As you can see, Commander Bothell ran a very tight ship.”

Susan shook her head as she took in the scene.  The office wasn't just clean and tidy, it was organised to sheer perfection.  Everything had its place, from the terminal on the desk to a handful of pens, a drinks machine and a large painting of the Battle of Pegasus, a copy of an original Justin Adams.  She’d actually seen the original, she recalled, when it had been hung in Warspite’s wardroom, two years after the battle.  Her first commanding officer had been adamant that they hadn't been that close to the Indian carrier.

“He was a little OCD,” Mason commented, as the hatch hissed closed behind them.  “I was surprised when he failed to return from his shore leave.”

“So was the captain,” Susan commented.  She sat down on one of the uncomfortable chairs and motioned him to take the other one, facing her.  “Paul ... can we talk bluntly, off the record?”

“Of course,” Mason said.  “Naval Regulation 538-362-3273 clearly states that two officers who shared a class at the academy may speak freely to one another, regardless of their formal ranks.”

Susan smiled.  “There’s no such regulation.”

Mason looked downcast.  “You’ll be astonished how much you can get away with just by quoting non-existent regulations.”

“I would be astonished if anyone fell for that one,” Susan said.  She shook her head.  “It’s practically a licence for the breakdown of naval discipline.”

“Perhaps,” Mason said.  “But it’s also useful to have an informal connection, from time to time, even if it was shaped in the academy.”

Susan shrugged.  “What’s wrong with the captain?”

Mason gave her a long look.  It was, she knew, an awkward question.  Asking a junior officer to pass judgement on a senior officer was a breach of naval etiquette, even if it went no further.  A captain might pass judgement on an admiral, if he or she served on a court martial board, but anyone junior?  It simply didn't happen.  Hell, even if it was perfectly legal to report one’s superior officer for misdeeds, it wasn’t impossible that the whistleblower’s career would come to a screeching halt.  Betraying one’s senior officers, for whatever reason, wasn't something that endeared a person to his future superiors.

“You don’t need to answer,” she said, “if you don’t want to answer.”

She kept her expression blank with an effort.  Paul Mason had been more than just a joker, he’d been the most outgoing person in their class.  She still smiled at the thought of how he’d made a pass at her, then befriended her when she’d shown no interest ... and at how he’d constantly pushed the limits, just to see how far they could go.  Hell, he’d cheerfully bragged of having a foursome in New Sin City.  She found it hard to imagine anything that could silence him.     

“I haven’t actually had much contact with him,” Mason said, finally.  He glanced up at the ceiling, as if he was suddenly unwilling to meet her eyes.  “Commander Bothell handled almost everything, Susan.  He was practically the real commanding officer on the ship.  The captain would come onto the bridge, but he wouldn't stand watches or anything unless there was something important, like a visit from a visiting dignitary.  Princess Elizabeth visited us for the launch ceremony and the captain was practically kissing her ass in public, yet the moment she departed he went back to his ready room and Commander Bothell resumed command.”

Susan rubbed her eyes.  “And no one noticed?”

“I rather doubt it was entered in the reports,” Mason said.  “Commander Bothell was the one who should have filed any complaints, if necessary, and I assume he didn’t say a word.”

“Vanguard is meant to be the most powerful ship in the fleet,” Susan said.  “Why didn't she get a commanding officer ...”

She shook her head.  The answer was obvious.  Captain Blake’s connections had been more than enough to get him moved to Vanguard, a transfer that would probably be worth more than a promotion to Commodore.  And his record probably wasn't bad.  He was old enough to have served in the war and, presumably, he’d earned credit merely for surviving.  Hadn’t John Naiser managed the jump from starfighter pilot to command track in the depleted years, following the war?

“I see,” she said.  She wasn't sure how to proceed.  If she contacted the Admiralty and reported the budding nightmare, Captain Blake’s connections would kill her career, even if the Admiralty agreed with her.  But if she kept her mouth shut, she would be compliant in ... in what, precisely?  Allowing someone to claim the rank without actually doing his bloody job?  “What was Commander Bothell like?”

“Competent,” Mason said.

Susan frowned.  “You say that as though it was a bad thing.”

“He did his job,” Mason said.  “And yes, he did most of the hard work of commanding this ship.  He was approachable, always willing to listen, and yet he had no spark of insight or genius.  I would honestly have said he was ... well, like Fisher.”

“That’s bad,” Susan said.  Fisher had been one of their fellow cadets, back during their first year at the academy.  Her family had made her join the navy and it showed; she had no enthusiasm, no inclination to actually do her best and no real urge to succeed.  She’d passed her exams, by some dark miracle, but she hadn't returned the following year.  “He was in command of the ship?”

“Yes,” Mason said.  “To all intents and purposes, he was the true commanding officer.”

Susan ran her hands through her hair.  If she’d known what she was getting into, she would have taken the risk of declining the promotion.  It was clear the Admiralty hadn't known; they’d have sent an inspection team if they’d had good reason to think there was a major problem.  And there was a problem.  How could she step into the shoes of a man who had been effectively commanding a battleship?

“If he deserted,” she mused, “why?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said.  “He was always a very straight-laced officer.  I would have expected him to complete his term, then retire.  There was never the slightest hint of impropriety, Commander.  He certainly never went to Sin City while we were orbiting the moon.”

Susan frowned.  “A wife?  A family?”

“None,” Mason said.  “Susan ... he actually gave me his ticket to Luna, two months ago.  Just gave it to me.”

“I don’t believe it,” Susan said.  “He just gave it to you?”

“Yes,” Mason confirmed.  “He said I could have it, if I wanted it.”

Susan shook her head.  A ticket to the moon, which meant Sin City as far as most crewmen were concerned, might be sold, or used as a gambling stake, but not just given away.  The crew would be given a handful of travel vouchers every so often, normally as rewards for good service.  If she’d had one, she wouldn’t give it up for anything.  

She scowled down at the deck, thinking hard.  Commander Bothell might have deserted ... or he might have suffered an accident ... or he might have been murdered.  Could the captain have murdered him?  He had talked about the XO in the past tense, after all.  Or ... or was she just being paranoid.  Senior officers took loyalty seriously, as they should.  And if Commander Bothell had been doing most of the work, his sudden desertion had left Captain Blake in a fix.  He couldn't have wanted Susan when she lacked the experience to fill Commander Bothell’s shoes.

“Then I’d better do my best to do my job,” she said.

“I’m happy to accept any further travel vouchers,” Mason said.

Susan gave him a rude gesture, then stood and walked over to the desk.  The drawers were locked, but a touch of her fingers to the scanner opened them.  Inside, there were a handful of papers, a small selection of Cadbury’s chocolate bars and a navy-issue pistol.  Susan picked it up and studied it, thoughtfully.  The weapon felt to have been crafted for a specific person, even though it was a standard design.  Further inside, there were two small packets of ammunition and a cleaning kit.

“Interesting,” she mused out loud.  “Was Commander Bothell a shooter?”

“Not as far as I know,” Mason said.  His voice became more formal.  “But we are encouraged to practice on the firing range.  Christopher - Major Andreas, the Marine CO - keeps score.  There’s a bottle of ship rotgut in it for the person who has the highest score, each week.”

“I see,” Susan said.  It was a wise precaution.  The Tadpoles had tried to board Ark Royal during the war.  Having the crew armed and ready to fight back would, it was hoped, make it harder for the Royal Navy to lose ships to boarding parties.  “I’ll speak to him later.”

She took a breath.  “I think I’m ready for that tour now,” she said.  She’d have to file something to the Admiralty, even if the file remained sealed.  “Is there anything I need to handle before the end of the week?”

“Yes, Commander,” Mason said.  “Two more middies are due here later this afternoon, unless there’s another delay.  I think you have to greet them, even if you have not yet assumed your post.”

“Understood,” Susan said.  She rose from behind the desk.  “You can take me on tour now, Paul.”

“Yes, Commander,” Mason said.

Chapter Four

“Hey, George,” Midshipman Nathan Bosworth called.  “They summoned you back today too?”

“Yep,” Midshipwoman George - no one ever called her Georgina, certainly not twice - Fitzwilliam said.  “How does it feel to be back at the academy?”

She smiled as they walked past the guards and into the academy itself.  It had been a week since their formal graduation ceremony, a week since she’d watched her uncle give the final address before the newly-minted midshipmen were given their rank badges and a week’s leave before they were dispatched to their new assignments.  She stepped to one side as a crowd of cadets ran past, snapping off salutes as they saw George’s uniform bars.  It was truly said that the academy was one of the few places where midshipmen were saluted.

“Look at those youngsters,” Nathan said.  “Doesn’t it make you feel young?”

George snorted.  She was twenty; she’d signed up for the academy as soon as she’d turned sixteen, despite her father’s half-hearted protests.  He might have expected her to become a proper lady, to be presented to the king at her coming out party and hunt for a rich or well-connected husband at a series of balls, but she was damned if she was allowing the aristocracy to turn her brains to mush.  She would sooner follow Prince Henry and renounce her title than surrender to the demands of her birth.  And her father, to his credit, had allowed her to go rather than continuing the fight.

“You’re twenty-two,” she said.  Nathan’s mother had insisted that he stay in school until he turned eighteen.  “I don’t think you’re that old.”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Nathan said.  “But compared to some of the newer cadets, I feel old.”

“Cling to that feeling,” George advised.  “You’ll need it when we go back to the bottom of the pecking order.”

The cadets were probably a little confused, she thought.  They looked young; they had both cut their hair close to their scalps, as the academy required.  George’s dark hair and pale skin contrasted oddly with Nathan’s blond good looks.  And yet, they were wearing midshipmen uniforms and carrying weapons.  Technically speaking, they no longer belonged in the academy.

She sighed, inwardly, as they made their way along the corridor.  There were four years at the academy, imaginatively called First to Fourth Year.  The seniors, the Fourth Years, ruled the academy; they were, to all intents and purposes, senior officers.  And they could be nasty at times, bullying and harassing the younger cadets.  Her uncle, when she’d asked, had pointed out that life onboard ship could be a thousand times worse, even though midshipmen and lieutenants were expected to be more mature.  It was better to weed the ones who couldn't hack it out of the academy before they graduated and wound up on starships.  But she’d never been entirely convinced of the logic.

“Maybe we’ll be promoted quickly,” Nathan said.  “You can’t be promoted for at least a year, unless you do something staggeringly awesome.”

“I don’t think you can do anything that will get you promoted up a grade before the earliest legal opportunity,” George said.  She’d looked it up; only one person had ever been promoted from midshipman to lieutenant in less than a year and that person had had to step up when her superiors died in an accident.  There had been acting officers, of course, but they didn't stay in their temporary ranks.  “We’ll be middies for at least a year.”

They turned into the commandant’s office and paused outside the hatch.  It was rare for a cadet to visit the commandant and, when it happened, it was almost always the final interview before a cadet was expelled.  The office was in Officer Country, to all intents and purposes; cadets were not supposed to enter without special permission.  But they’d been recalled to the academy, just to receive their new assignments ...

She took a step forward and pressed her hand against the scanner.  It hissed open, revealing the commandant’s secretary, the formidable Mrs Kale.  The cadets whispered that she’d been around since the days of Nelson, quietly steering the Royal Navy as it changed from a seafaring to a spacefaring force.  Even if she was much younger, and logic suggested she couldn't be much older than fifty, she was still respected and feared.  She’d been in her post for years and knew where all the bodies were buried.

“Cadet ... Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam, reporting as ordered,” George said.

“Take a seat,” Mrs Kale ordered, once Nathan had identified himself.  “The commandant will call you shortly.”

George nodded and sat down.  The seats were uncomfortable - she had a nasty feeling that that was deliberate, to remind troublemakers that they were in trouble - and she found it hard to speak, knowing that Mrs Kale was sitting there, listening to every word.  She waited for the commandant to tell her where she was going, feeling her heartbeat starting to race.  If she got a poor assignment, right out of the academy, her career might never get off the ground.

Unless you ask for help, her thoughts reminded her.  But you wanted to see what you could do on your own.

She scowled, inwardly.  Her uncle was the First Space Lord!  It would be easy to ask him to make sure she got a dream assignment - or, for that matter, for a senior officer to assume the First Space Lord would intervene in her favour.  But she’d know, even if no one else did, that she’d done nothing to deserve it.  She wanted to earn her place in the Royal Navy.  Her pride would admit of nothing less.

The hatch hissed open.  “You may go through,” Mrs Kale told them.  “Leave your holdalls on the chairs.”

Her expression softened, just slightly.  “Good luck.”

George nodded as she rose, then walked through the hatch.  Commandant McWilliams was seated behind his desk, his cold stare sending shivers down her spine as he studied her for a long chilling moment before turning his attention to Nathan.  She came to attention and saluted, only relaxing - slightly - when he returned the salute.  They might be officers now, but they had a long way to go before they reached his exalted rank.

“You may be seated,” the Commandant said.  “Congratulations on your graduation.”

“Thank you, sir,” George said.  

She sat down and waited, resting her hands in her lap.  Whatever she got, be it an assignment to a mining scow or a survey ship, she would take it and be glad.  A survey ship wouldn't be bad, even if she might wind up stuck in survey for the rest of her career.  There was always the prospect of being the first person to meet a third alien race.

“You both graduated with high marks, both theoretical and practical,” the Commandant said, shortly.  “Your practical experience is limited, but there are ... problems creating truly realistic training scenarios.  Accordingly, you are both being assigned to HMS Vanguard as junior middies.  I trust you both find this acceptable?”

“Yes, sir,” Nathan said.

George echoed him a second later.  There was little prospect of becoming first middy on Vanguard - if she recalled correctly, there were at least six or seven midshipmen assigned to a battleship - but it had its compensations.  As long as she didn't screw up, she’d remain firmly on command track, rather than being diverted into survey or - horror of horrors - staff work.  There was no way to know if her uncle had had a quiet word with the personnel department or not, but at least her grades provided justification for the assignment.  She knew, without false modesty, that she’d done well.

“Mrs Kale has your travel details,” the Commandant added.  “You’ll have an hour before your shuttle departs, so I suggest you use that time to send messages home before you arrive on Vanguard.  You’ll be very busy right from the start.”

He paused.  “I won’t give you much advice, because you should have been paying attention in class.  However” - his expression hardened for a second - “ you should recall that you are very junior and inexperienced officers.  You must earn the respect of the crewmen under you if you wish to proceed.  Listen to personnel who are more experienced than yourselves, even if you outrank them.  Your rank badges do not make you little gods.  A single mistake can kill you.”

George nodded, not daring to speak.  She’d been taught to check everything, time and time again, because space was merciless.  And yet, she knew all too well that a single mistake, something that could easily be overlooked, something that would be perfectly safe on Earth ... could get them killed in space.  She wondered, absently, just how long it would be before she was trusted to work on her own, then dismissed the thought.  Having someone else check her work was just common sense.

“Thank you, sir,” Nathan said.

“Good luck,” the Commandant said.  He rose.  “Dismissed.”

George and Nathan saluted, then turned and marched out of the office.  Mrs Kale, without looking up from her computer terminal, held out a pair of datachips.  George took hers, picked up her holdall and headed out of the hatch.  Nathan followed her and, as soon as the hatch had hissed closed, he wrapped her up in a tight hug.

“Vanguard,” he said.  “A battleship!”

“It could be worse,” George agreed, mischievously.  

She pulled her reader off her belt and slotted the datachip into it.  They had a shuttle flight in an hour, as the Commandant had said; she scanned the list of requirements quickly, then nodded to herself as she shut down the terminal.  There was no need to make a run to the stores before they arrived on the giant battleship.   She had two full changes of clothes with her - as well as extra underwear - and she shouldn't need anything else immediately.  Her reader had enough books loaded to keep her content for years.

“I need to pick up an extra uniform,” Nathan said.  “Coming to the store?”

George sighed.  “What happened to your spare?”

“Don’t ask,” Nathan said.  “I mean it.  Really don’t ask.”

“What happens in Sin City, stays in Sin City,” George said.  She’d been twice, but she hadn't cared for it very much.  Cadets and spacers - and everyone else - were welcome, as long as they had money to spend.  Ironically, it was also the safest place on the moon.  No one was fool enough to tangle with the city’s authorities by mugging the guests.  “Let’s go.”

She picked up some extra chocolate and sweets at the store, then followed Nathan down to the airlock.  The shuttle docked on schedule - she was surprised to discover that there were a handful of crewmen waiting to board the craft too - and she hurried onboard.  Maybe it was her imagination, but the crewmen looked tough, unwilling to suffer fools gladly.  How could she give orders to them?

“It’s only a short flight,” Nathan said.  “There’s hardly any time to sleep.”

“I’m too excited to sleep,” George said.  It was true.  Everything she’d done, over the last four years, had been building towards this moment.  “I’m going to read.”

She opened her reader as the hatch banged closed and the shuttle took off, accessing the other files on the datachip.  There was surprisingly little about Vanguard herself, save for a handful of deck plans that looked to be intentionally vague and a great deal of buzzwords that seemed designed for public consumption.  She’d been told, back at the academy, that much of the information freely available online was inaccurate in many ways, but it didn't look as though the academy wanted her to be any more informed.  But then, she was only a midshipwoman en route to her first posting.  No doubt she’d be filled in when she arrived.

“There’s very little on the command crew,” Nathan observed.  “And the XO slot is completely empty.”

George frowned as she checked her own reader, then nodded.  “It’s missing completely,” she said.  Were they meant to look it up for themselves, while they were at the academy?  Had they just failed a test?  Or had something else happened?  “Maybe they want to surprise us.”

“Seems a bit of a petty surprise,” Nathan observed.  “Is that normal?”

“I don’t know,” George admitted.  She’d tried asking her naval relatives for details of their first duty postings, but none of them had been particularly specific.  Perhaps midshipmen didn't do anything spectacular; her uncle, at least, hadn't been particularly successful until the First Interstellar War.  “It could be a bureaucratic mix-up.”

“Or it could be a test to see how we react,” Nathan speculated.  “Prince Henry might have come back from Tadpole Prime to serve as XO.  Or maybe it’s Stellar Star herself!”

“I very much doubt it,” George said, primly.  The thought was amusing, but it was the kind of thing that only happened in bad movies, the ones written and produced by hacks who thought they could substitute nudity for storytelling.  Given how much nudity was available on the datanet, she had a feeling they were wasting their time.  “Every time you hear uncontrolled laughter rippling out of the officers’ wardroom you just know they’re watching Stellar Star.”

She glanced through the rest of her reader, but found nothing else beyond basic facts she could have downloaded from the public database, if she’d wished.  Shaking her head, she opened one of the latest novels from her favourite writer and settled down to read.  Her uncle had been the one to introduce her to wet-navy stories and, after she'd gotten used to the tropes, she’d found she rather enjoyed them.  It seemed odd to think that sailing on water could be as dangerous as travelling through interstellar space, but it could be ...

There are no storms in space, she thought, wryly.  And fewer enemies.

The intercom bleeped.  “If I could have your attention please,” the shuttle pilot said, “we are currently approaching HMS Vanguard.  Passengers are reminded that we are landing in Shuttlebay Four; all passengers are to walk through the hatch and then remain within the reception bay until collected by greeting parties.  Please make sure you take all personal possessions with you upon disembarking this craft, as we will be proceeding to HMS Rubicon shortly.”

“As if we brought much,” Nathan muttered.

“Good thing my sister didn't come,” George muttered back.  “Anne has more clothes in her room than everyone in our class, put together.”

“That’s a lot of clothes,” Nathan said.  “How much money did she waste on them?”

George shrugged.  It was impossible to say just how rich her family actually was, not when half of their wealth was invested in everything from land to asteroids and industries.  Her father and grandfather had steered the family through the chaos caused by the bombardment, although they’d taken quite considerable losses after the floodwaters had ravaged Earth.  And, as long as some of her more idle cousins didn't get their hands on any of the steering levers, the family should be wealthy and powerful for a very long time to come.  

And Anne could buy expensive gold bikinis and handbags for years without putting a serious dent in her trust fund, she thought, darkly.  She’d never gotten along with her sister, who had always preferred to emulate their mother.  But then, it had been her sister who had convinced her to shorten her name to George.  Father may give her money, but he’ll never give her the keys to the kingdom.

She stared down at the deck, despite the urge to stare as the shuttle approached the massive battleship.  Nathan was one of her friends, one of the few who hadn't seen her as a rich bitch or as the ticket to promotion, yet even he sometimes showed flickers of envy.  And the hell of it was that he had a point.  She had enough money in her trust fund to get out of just about anything short of mass murder.  There was no way she had to work a day in her life if she didn't want to.  

“She’s impressive as hell,” Nathan said.  A dull thump echoed through the shuttle as the craft touched down in the shuttlebay.  “Ugly, too; she looks like someone crossed a hammer with a dumbbell.”

“Our new home,” George said.

She rose, picked up her holdall and headed for the hatch, feeling an odd twinge of nervousness.  She’d been scared when she’d gone to boarding school - it was customary for aristocratic children to go to boarding school - and uncertain when she’d gone to the academy, but this was different.  A screw-up at the academy might get her expelled, if it was bad enough; it wouldn’t get someone dead.  Here, the slightest mistake could cost the lives of her shipmates.  She hesitated at the hatch, then stepped out of the shuttle and looked around the shuttlebay.  A handful of other shuttles were sitting on the deck, but there was no one in sight.  She followed the lines drawn on the deck through a large airlock, Nathan tagging at her heels, and into a larger room.  A marine stood at the far end, weapon in hand.  It was clear that no one was to go into the battleship without an escort.

The hatch opened with a hiss, revealing a dark-skinned woman wearing a commander’s uniform.  George stared, impressed.  The woman’s bearing said, very clearly, that she was not someone to mess with.  She was followed by a tough-looking midshipman who gave her a brief once-over, then scowled at her.  George shivered.  Judging by his age, he was almost certainly the First Middy.

“Midshipman Bosworth, Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam?”

“Yes, Commander,” Nathan said.

“I am Commander Onarina,” the Commander said.  “Welcome onboard HMS Vanguard.”

“Thank you, Commander,” George said.

“This is Midshipman Fraser,” Commander Onarina added.  “He will see to it that you’re bedded down in middy quarters and give you a basic orientation.  I’m afraid you’ll have to hit the ground running, but your grades suggest you should be up to it.”

George swallowed.  The look in Fraser’s eyes promised nothing, but trouble.

“Thank you, Commander, Nathan said.

“I’ll speak to you all later,” Commander Onarina added.  She studied them both for a long moment, then straightened.  “Dismissed!”

Chapter Five

“Were we ever that young and innocent?”

“Young, perhaps,” Mason said.  “Innocent ... I think not.”

Susan shook her head as the two new middies headed down the corridor, following the First Middy.  The boy - it was hard to think of him as being twenty-two - looked mature enough to cope, but there was a question mark over the girl.  Her file clearly stated she was twenty, having joined the navy at the earliest possible age.  She’d made it through the academy, naturally, but she might well lack the maturity of someone with more life experience.  Still, she’d known what she was getting into when she signed up.  Susan made a mental note to keep an eye on her, then turned to Mason.

“So,” she said.  “You want to complete the tour?”

“Of course, Commander,” Mason said.

He led the way down the corridor towards the rear turrets, chatting all the time.  “The boffins came up with a new material for our internal hull,” he explained, cheerfully.  “In theory, if you were to detonate a nuke inside our hull, the damage would actually be minimal.  No one’s tried, naturally.  I don’t think I’d care to be the person who proposed that to the Admiralty.”

“It would be an alarmingly realistic test,” Susan agreed.  “And even if the hull survived, what about the control systems?”

“That’s the real question, Commander,” Mason said.  “The ship has countless redundancies built into the command network.  In theory, we can lose four-fifths of the grid and keep operating, although there are obvious limits.  There are three formal command stations within the hull - the bridge, the secondary bridge and the CIC - and we can steer the ship from Main Engineering, if necessary.  She’s built to take a shitload of damage, really.”

“Let’s hope we don’t have to test it,” Susan mused.  “What’s the real danger?”

“You’re familiar with plasma cannons, I assume,” Mason said, as they stepped through a series of airlocks.  “Warspite’s giant cannon was merely the first in a series of increasingly dangerous weapons.  Ours are far more powerful than Warspite’s and our rate of fire is a great deal more rapid.  The real danger, however, is overheating the guns or losing containment within the plasma chamber.  If the former occurs, we’d have to shut down the guns to allow them to cool; if the latter, we’d have to vent the plasma into space or risk an explosion.”

“It wouldn’t be as bad as a nuke,” Susan pointed out.

“No,” Mason agreed.  “But it would ruin the gun completely, perhaps even melt the turret.  I don’t think our engineering crews could repair the damage without a shipyard.”

“And it would have to be a shipyard that had the right parts in stock,” Susan said.  “One of the reports I glanced at said there were shipping problems.”

“There are,” Mason confirmed.  “Each of the main guns needs to be crafted specifically for a battleship.  We couldn't tear a Warspite-class cruiser apart to replace the missing gun.”

He waved a hand as they passed through the last airlock and into the turret.  A handful of crewmen were sitting at consoles, practicing their tactical skills against simulated targets, just in case the turret had to engage targets independently.  It wasn't likely, given how much redundancy was built into the system, but it was a wise precaution.  Susan had to admit that Commander Bothell had done an excellent job of preparing the battleship for war.  She just wasn’t sure about the captain.

“We can engage multiple targets simultaneously,” he said, “or concentrate our fire on a single target.  Even a Tadpole superdreadnaught wouldn't be able to stand against our fire for long.”

Susan glanced at him.  “Long enough to ram us?”

“No, according to the simulations,” Mason said.  “In practice ... let’s just say no one wants to try it and find out.”

He shrugged.  “Put a light cruiser like Warspite up against us and we’ll blow her out of space casually,” he added.  “She won’t even scratch our paint!  Starfighters ... they shouldn't be able to inflict much damage, save for stripping our hull of weapons and sensor blisters ... and even then, we have hardened replacements in stock.  It won’t be easy for anyone to stop us from reaching our destination.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Susan said.  She took one final look around the turret, noting the access hatches that allowed the crew to perform repairs while the ship was underway, then followed him back through the airlock, making a mental note to return at some point and explore the turret thoroughly.  “Where next?”

“Engineering,” Mason said.  “I think you’ll like it.  We have six fusion cores, each one powerful enough to keep the ship moving on its own ...”

Susan couldn't help feeling tired, two hours later; Mason had shown her everything from the fusion cores to the bridge, sickbay and tactical compartment, his personal domain.  Vanguard was lavishly equipped, compared to a cruiser; Susan rather suspected that the Admiralty intended to use the battleship as a flagship, if all hell broke loose.  Vanguard would tend to draw fire - she was hardly unnoticeable - but she had the greatest chance of surviving a modern-day fleet battle.  The war would have gone very differently if Vanguard had fought in the Battle of New Russia.

“I’ll be happy to cede the post to you whenever you want it,” Mason said, as he led the way to her cabin and opened the hatch.  “Commander Bothell’s next duty slot was tomorrow morning” - he glanced at his watch - “seven hours from now.”

Susan nodded, frowning as they walked into the cabin.  It was larger than she’d expected, easily big enough to swing a cat; a giant painting of a starship she didn’t recognise hung against the far bulkhead, illuminated by a lamp mounted on the overhead.    A small bookshelf, embedded in the bulkhead, housed a dozen paper books; beside it, a coffee machine bleeped for attention.  Another portrait - she smiled as she recognised the king - hung above the drinks machine.  She would have bet ten pounds that the XO’s safe was hidden behind the portrait.  It was practically tradition.

She looked into the sleeping compartment and frowned.  The bed had been changed, probably by one of the stewards, and her holdall had been placed at the foot of the compartment, but the remainder of Commander Bothell’s possessions had been left in place.  He looked to have been something of a packrat, judging by the books on the shelves.  It was rare for any naval officer to bring physical books onto a starship when they could load thousands, if not millions, of eBooks onto a datapad.  She could download the complete works of anyone and read them during long deployments and boring watches.

“I’ll have to get his possessions boxed up,” she said, tightly.  She'd slept in uncomfortable places before - her midshipwoman quarters had been cramped, smelly and thoroughly unpleasant - but she’d never slept in someone else’s room.  “I wish I knew what had happened to him.”

“I’m surprised no one has come to collect them,” Mason said.  “Surely, someone must want to go through his possessions to look for clues.”

Susan nodded, slowly.  “I’ll put in a request for an investigative team, then have his possessions put in storage if they’re not interested.  I can't see them not wanting to take a look.”

“Technically, they should have sealed the quarters,” Mason said.  “But there’s been a marked lack of interest in inspecting his possessions.”

He cleared his throat.  “When do you want to take up your post?”

“I’ll assume the position formally tomorrow, when I take my first watch,” Susan said.  Seven hours ... she could take a nap, then read her way through the personnel files, just to make sure she knew who she was supposed to be commanding.  It would mean hitting the deck running, but she could handle it.  “If that suits you ...”

“Well, I’m sure I can serve as the acting XO for another few hours,” Mason said, mischievously.  “But I don’t think I want the job permanently.”

Susan frowned, inwardly.  The Paul Mason she recalled had been ambitious, as ambitious as herself.  And he had every right to be irked at her coming in and taking a position he might have thought to be his by right, although it was common for officers who were promoted to XO to be transferred to a whole new ship.  But he hadn't tried to put up a fight or even show passive resistance.  It worried her more than she cared to admit.

“I’ll see you on the bridge,” she said.  She cast a longing look at the sleeping compartment, then back at him.  “It’s been a long day.”

Mason nodded, then strode out of the compartment.  Susan sighed, then sat down in one of the comfortable chairs.  It struck her, looking around, that Commander Bothell hadn't entertained in his cabin.  The space might be vast, compared to a junior officer’s cabin, but there were no sofas, no tables, nothing that suggested he ever had guests.  Her old XO on Cornwall had been fond of playing poker with the other senior officers - his cabin had been comfortable, if shabby - but Commander Bothell’s cabin was his private place.  

She shook her head in amused disbelief.  It had only been nine hours since she’d been at the school, telling the teenaged children what they could expect if they joined the navy.  And now she was taking up a new post on Vanguard, preparing to depart the system in just under a week.  It wasn't what she’d been led to expect.

Rising to her feet, she padded into the bedroom and checked the compartments under the bed.  The steward hadn't removed anything; Susan cursed under her breath as she poked through Commander Bothell’s uniforms, then placed her holdall on the bed and removed fresh clothing for the following day.  She’d have to have HMS Vanguard sewn onto her jacket, she reminded herself; the stewards would see to it, if she told them when they took her jacket to be cleaned.  Or she could just draw new supplies from the ship’s stores.  

Gritting her teeth, she undressed and stepped into the shower compartment.  Thankfully, someone had taken the original towels and replaced them with fresh ones, along with a small selection of navy-issue toiletries.  She showered quickly, donned fresh underwear and walked back out into the cabin.  Her body wanted sleep, but she knew she had to complete a number of tasks before she closed her eyes.  Sitting down at the desk, she tapped the terminal and accessed the starship’s communications network.  Sending a sealed message back to the Admiralty wasn't difficult, although it ran the risk of drawing attention.  If someone was monitoring her traffic ...

And maybe you’re just being paranoid, she told herself, firmly.  You have no reason to suspect foul play.

She shook her head.  She'd had captains she would follow into the gates of hell itself and captains who had been blustery tyrants, but she’d never known one like Captain Blake.  It was hard to believe the Admiralty knew of his failings ... unless Commander Bothell had been meant to keep him under control.  No, that made no sense.  The Admiralty wouldn't take chances with the commanding officer of a full-sized battleship.  If Captain Blake had been deemed unsuitable for the post, he would have been reassigned, no matter what connections he had.

And that leaves me with a dilemma, she thought.  Just what do I do about it?

“Record the message, then encrypt it for the personal attention of the First Space Lord, to be released if Vanguard is declared missing or lost,” she ordered.

“Acknowledged,” the terminal said.  “Key the switch to record.”

Susan tapped the console.  “Sir, if you are receiving this message ...”

She ran through a long explanation of everything that had happened since boarding Vanguard, from her meeting with Captain Blake to her inspection of Commander Bothell’s office and concluded with an apology for not sending the message directly to the personnel department.  It would have destroyed her career, she knew, even if Captain Blake had been proven unfit for command.  She would have been lucky not to be shunted sideways to an asteroid mining station until her enlistment expired.

And yet, she mused, doesn't that make me a coward?

She brought up Commander Bothell’s logs and skimmed the last few entries.  It didn't take her long to decide that Commander Bothell had been detailing everything - his logs included references to bringing supplies onboard and a brief mention of a fight in the middy cabin - and yet, there were surprisingly few personalised details.  Commander Bothell had no thoughts or feelings of his own, judging by his logs; there was nothing to say how he’d reacted to the problems facing the Royal Navy’s first battleship.  He’d been nothing more than his captain’s right hand.

“Odd,” she said, out loud.  

She’d read some XO logs back at the academy and most of them had included observations and cheerfully irreverent comments.  The tutor had explained that the XOs sometimes needed to vent, secure in the knowledge that no one would read their logs and take note of the comments they made, sometimes, about their commanding officers.  Their personalities had shone through their words.  But Commander Bothell had no personality, as far as she could tell.  He spent a dozen paragraphs covering the dispute over which starship should have first dibs on a shipment of spare parts, yet no time at all covering his personal feelings.  She was honestly starting to wonder what he’d been trying to hide.

Unless he suspected someone would be reading his logs, she thought.  There had been one XO log that had included grumbles about a captain who refused to move on, keeping the XO and everyone below him firmly in place.  She doubted his commanding officer would have been particularly amused if he’d read it.  Could the captain have been reading over his shoulder?

It wasn't a pleasant thought.  Traditionally, personal logs were inviolate, unless there was an internal security investigation underway, but the captain could unlock any file on the ship, if he chose.  Someone who wanted true privacy would need to bring their own laptop onto the ship, which was against at least four different regulations.  If Commander Bothell had believed that Captain Blake was reading his logs ...

Definitely not a pleasant thought, Susan told herself.  And I’d better be careful what I write myself.

She saved the message, knowing it would be transmitted to the archives on Nelson Base, then tapped out another message for Commodore Younghusband.  He’d tell her what he wanted done with Commander Bothell’s possessions, if he didn't want to send an investigative team to Vanguard.  She had a feeling he’d probably just want them all boxed up and shipped back to Earth, unless something had popped up to suggest it was more than an open-and-shut case of desertion.  

Shaking her head, she rose and strode over to the king’s portrait, pulling it back to reveal the hidden safe.  It hadn't been programmed to accept her fingerprints, she discovered; it rejected them the moment she pressed her fingertips against the scanner.  She made another mental note to have the safe reprogrammed, then looked at the bookshelves.  Commander Bothell, it seemed, had been fond of the science-fantasy books that had been common, before the Troubles.  It suggested a whimsical nature that was at odds with his logbook entries.  She opened one at random and smiled at the description of life on Mars.  Two hundred years of exploration had turned up nothing to suggest that Mars had ever been inhabited, even by single-celled creatures.  The only beings living on Mars were human settlers.

There was no answer from Younghusband, but she hadn't expected one.  She checked her message file, just to make sure no one else was trying to contact her, then walked back into the sleeping compartment and set the alarm.  Five hours of sleep was less than she needed, but she was used to getting by on very little sleep.  She’d have enough time to dress, freshen up and eat something before making her way to the bridge and officially assuming her post as XO.  And then ...

This is a career boost, she told herself.  Serving as Vanguard’s XO should be a great step forward, opening up the prospect of commanding a fleet carrier or one of the newer battleships, when they came online.  Either one would be regarded as the quickest way to become an admiral, although she knew her connections were too weak to guarantee it.  I should make the most of it.

She scowled at the thought.  There was something wrong with the captain, the former first officer had vanished under mysterious circumstances ... she had the nasty feeling she'd been dropped in a cesspit.  Perhaps she had been assigned to Vanguard purely so someone without serious connections could take the fall, when the situation - whatever it was - finally exploded.  Captain Blake had to have some connections in very high places, while no one would give a damn about her.

Even paranoids have enemies, she thought, gloomily.  Paul might be my only ally on the ship and he’s nothing more than a lieutenant-commander.

She climbed into bed, turned out the light and closed her eyes.  The situation might look better tomorrow, when she assumed her post ... and, even if it didn't, she’d have the advantage of a few hours of sleep.  Who knew?  Maybe Captain Blake had just been having a very bad day.  It couldn't be easy to lose a trusted XO, certainly not to desertion ... hell, it would make Captain Blake look very bad, even if he hadn’t driven Commander Bothell to flee the service.  His trust had been betrayed ...

Sure, she thought, as sleep dragged her down into the darkness.  And I’m the Queen of England.

Chapter Six

“So,” the first middy - Charles Fraser - said, addressing Nathan.  “You two have never served on a starship before?”

“No,” Nathan said.  “Not unless you count Rustbucket ...”

“That’s no, sir,” the first middy corrected.  “And no, no one counts Rustbucket as a real starship.”

George swallowed.  Fraser was huge, intimidatingly huge ... there was an air of barely-restrained violence around him that terrified her, even though she’d met no shortage of extremely dangerous men when they visited her family.  His hair was cropped short; his face was battered and ugly, twisted into a perpetual scowl, as if he were smelling something disgusting under his nose.  The tutors at the academy had been tough, particularly the unarmed combat instructors, but Fraser chilled her to the bone.  

She followed him down the corridor, trying hard to keep from glancing around as they passed through a series of airlocks.  Rustbucket had been fantastic - a decommissioned starship turned into a training zone for cadets - but Vanguard hummed with light and power.  A dull thrumming echoed through the hull, reminding her that they were on an active starship about to power up its drives and head out into the great unknown.  Dozens of crewmen walked past the midshipmen, some pushing trolleys loaded with sealed packing crates.  George stared at them in silent fascination, wondering what they were doing.  Shipping spare parts to the engineering decks, perhaps, or transporting ration bars to the galley?  There was no way to know.

“This is middy country,” Fraser said, as they stepped through yet another airlock hatch.  “No one is supposed to enter, save us.  Don’t be surprised, however, when the XO makes an inspection every so often.  We got in deep shit when Commander Bothell made an inspection and this new XO may be just as nit-picking.”

“Yes, sir,” Nathan said.

“Gym through there,” Fraser said.  He jabbed a finger at a green hatch.  “Shared with some of the senior crew, but we have priority.  You’re meant to spend at least an hour a day in there, working to build up your muscles and generally staying healthy.  Emergency stores in there” - he pointed at another hatch - “but don’t take anything unless you desperately need it, as I am required to account for all the supplies.  The XO may ask pointed questions.”

George frowned.  Of you or of us?

Fraser stopped outside a larger hatch.  “These are our sleeping quarters,” he said.  His gaze crawled over George, sending shivers down her spine.  “I trust that neither of you are claustrophobic?”

“We wouldn't have made it through the academy if we were,” George said, refusing to allow him to intimidate her any further.  “We’ve been in some very cramped spaces.”

“I am the first middy,” Fraser said.  He leaned forward, his dark eyes meeting hers.  “You will address me as sir.”

George was tempted to refuse - they were of equal rank, technically - but she knew he had far more experience of shipboard duty.  Besides, he was the first middy.  She’d be under his supervision - and command - until one of them was promoted to lieutenant and moved to a private cabin.

“Yes, sir,” she said, reluctantly.

Fraser eyed her for a long moment, then keyed the hatch switch.  It hissed open, revealing a tiny space, barely large enough for ten bunks and ten tiny cabinets.  George felt a sinking feeling as she saw a sleeping midshipman in one of the bunks, even though she knew not all of the midshipmen would be on duty at the same time.  The compartment was so tiny that Fraser alone seemed to take up most of the space; hell, she had a nasty feeling that the only place to change was in the middle of the cabin, where everyone could see them.  There were only a handful of thin curtains covering the bunks!

“There are two showers and two toilets at the far end,” Fraser said.  “As junior midshipmen, it is your duty to clean them every day.  I will check your work and woe betide you if it is not perfect.”

Nathan blinked.  “I thought such duties were shared ...”

“You’re fit for little else at the moment,” Fraser told him, curtly.  He opened one of the doors to reveal a shower, barely large enough for a single person.  “Wash the decks, empty the bins, check the flushers ... we’ll go through the rest of it later.”

He turned.  “You have the bunks here, nearest the hatch,” he added.  “Do not wake anyone else when you get up in the morning; some of us have to work shipboard nights.  If you want to read books, play games or listen to music, make sure you wear headphones and keep your mouths shut.  No one will be even remotely sympathetic if you get punched in the nose by a person you woke up, believe me.

“We have our own table in the wardroom, which you’ll see when I give you the basic tour of the ship.  Do not eat elsewhere and do not invite anyone to eat at our table without my permission.  If you want a snack in the middle of the night or something along the same lines, and you can't be bothered going to the wardroom, there are ration bars in the side compartments.  Remember, you have to replace any you take.  Again, if you eat or drink in here, don’t wake up the sleeping ugly midshipmen.”

“Yes, sir,” Nathan said.

“You each have one locker for your personal clothes and other such shit,” Fraser added, pointing to the lockers.  “Those are your private compartments - no one, not even the XO, will look in them without a good reason.  If you need more space, tough shit.  Any fancy dresses you happened to bring” - he shot George a nasty look - “will have to be spaced.”

George nodded, not trusting herself to speak.  

“Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam, unpack your holdall and then wait in here,” Fraser concluded, shortly.  “I’m going to have a little talk with Midshipman Bosworth.”

“Yes, sir,” George said.  Judging from the look on Nathan’s face, he welcomed the idea of a private chat with the first middy about as much as George herself.  “I’ll remain here.”

She watched Fraser and Nathan leave the room, then opened her holdall and emptied it out onto the bunk.  Her two spare uniforms were easy enough to hang up in the locker, but it was harder to sort out her underwear and the handful of personal effects she’d brought with her until she realised she was meant to just leave them on the bottom.  It didn't strike her as being very efficient, but naval uniforms were designed to be durable as well as uncomfortable.  She slotted a photograph of her parents and sister into the locker door, then reached for the chocolate on the bunk, just as the hatch reopened.

“Ah, chocolate,” Fraser said.  “Put it in the general stash.”

George stared at him.  “I bought it ...”

“And now it’s in the general stash,” Fraser said.  He inspected her locker, his eyes darkening at something.  “Anything sent to us from Earth goes into the general stash.  We’ll share it out later today.”

He smiled at her shocked expression.  “Come with me,” he ordered.  “We’ll give Bosworth his chance to open his bag and hide his stash.”

“Yes, sir,” George said.  There was no point in arguing, she suspected.  “Where are we going?”

Fraser led her through the hatch, down the corridor and into a small compartment.  A table, chair and terminal sat, perched against the far corner; the remainder of the room was barren, completely bare.  There weren’t even any pictures on the bulkheads.  The hatch hissed closed behind them; Fraser caught her, spun her around and pushed her against the bulkhead.  She tensed, unsure if she should try to fight or not, as he glowered down at her.  Up close, all alone, he was far more intimidating.  She would have thought that was impossible.

“I want you to understand something,” he growled.  “Your family name means nothing on this ship.  I don’t give a damn if you’re the heir to the Barony of Cockatrice or the next in line to inherit Buckingham Palace.  Your name means nothing here.  Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” George stammered.

“I am the first middy,” Fraser said.  He loomed over her, far too close for comfort.  “That means you do as I say, whatever it is.  I am god, as far as you are concerned.  I don’t give a shit if you like me or not.  My job is ensuring you fit into the crew before you make a typical maggot mistake and get someone killed.  Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” George managed.

“You are young, absurdly young,” Fraser added.  “Your family probably saw to it that you entered the academy early, even though the recruiters prefer prospective cadets to complete their basic schooling and enter the academy at eighteen.  Don’t expect any respect from me, or any of the other midshipmen, until you earn it.  Do you understand me?”

George merely nodded, fighting to keep her legs from trembling.  Her uncle had never told her about this, never implied that she would be intimidated by the first middy.  And yet, some of the stories she’d read from the wet-navy era had been far worse.  Midshipmen could be whipped to a bloody pulp by their superiors, if their superiors were having a bad day.

“If I catch you being derelict in your duties, or using your family name as a weapon, I will administer punishment duty,” Fraser said.  “Space is unforgiving, Fitzwilliam; this isn't Rustbucket, where the worst that can happen is you getting roundly mocked by your peers or kicked out for gross stupidity.  A mistake here ... well, you’ll be lucky if all that happens is you meet the wrong end of my fists.”

He stepped backwards.  “Did you manage to unpack everything before I collected you?”

“Yes, sir,” George said.  It was hard, so hard, to keep her voice level, but she managed it.   “I have everything put away, save for the chocolate.”

“And that’s going to be shared out tonight,” Fraser said.  “We’re all in this together, Fitzwilliam.  I won’t tolerate anything that smacks of elitism among the middies.  Elitism breeds resentment.”

George blinked.  “Like one of us being the first middy?”

“I’m the senior midshipman,” Fraser said, simply.  Oddly, he didn't seem inclined to bite her head off for cheek.  “I didn't get this post through connections, merely through endurance.”

“Yes, sir,” George said.

Fraser nodded.  “This room - and the privacy tubes - are the only places where we get any actual privacy,” he said.  He nodded to the terminal.  “You’ll have a time slot each day to use the terminal to write messages and suchlike, if you have the chance to actually use it.  You can trade personal time with the other middies, if you wish, but you’re not allowed to use the terminal outside your designated slot.  Unless, of course, you’re studying for exams.  Those take priority.”

He smiled, rather coldly.  “Any questions?”

George studied him for a long moment.  “Is there anything else I need to know?”

“Plenty,” Fraser said.  His smile turned into a leer.  “Once the ship is underway, we’ll give you the formal welcoming ceremony.  After that, you’ll be one of us ... assuming, of course, you survive.”

He turned and strode out of the hatch.  George stared after him, feeling her thoughts whirling in confusion.  No one had told her anything about this.  She wondered, briefly, if she should send a message to her family, just to ask what was going on, but she knew it would be counted as whining.  Her uncle had made it very clear, when he’d told her that she’d been accepted at the academy, that he expected her to earn her rank on her own merits.  There was no way he’d do anything about her minor problems.  He’d been in the middle of a war.

And he was a midshipman too, she thought, grimly.  He would have gone through worse before being assigned to Ark Royal.

She pushed the thought aside - she’d been warned, after all, that shipboard life could be difficult even when it wasn't dangerous - and followed Fraser back into the middy cabin, where Nathan was waiting for her.  The sleeping midshipman was awake, chatting quietly with Nathan; he shut up, at once, when Fraser glowered at him.  George nodded politely to him, then stepped back to allow Fraser to lead them both out of the compartment.  She knew she’d have a chance for formal introductions soon enough.

“Luckily, his duty slot starts in an hour,” Fraser commented, as soon as the hatch had hissed shut.  “Don’t be late for your duty slots; try to be there five minutes before you’re actually meant to be there.  The officer commanding will not be pleased; you’ll be lucky if you’re spending the next month cleaning the toilets with your own toothbrushes.  In your case, you’ll be tried and tested on the consoles before they let you take a formal duty slot, but don’t treat it as anything other than a serious assignment.  A bad report from one of the OCs could ruin your career at this early stage.”

George nodded.  Her uncle had told her the same thing.

“You’re both on the day shift until we get you bedded in,” Fraser continued.  “Get out of your bunks at eight, have a shower, grab something to eat and report to the OC at nine; you’ll have a full schedule waiting for you in your mailboxes.  You’ll get a break for lunch, probably around one or two, then another duty slot until five or six.  After that, you’re expected to do at least an hour in the gym every day.  Make sure you have a more experienced midshipman with you until you’re fully checked out on the equipment.”

Nathan coughed.  “Isn't it the same as the academy’s equipment?”

“Yes, but I want you to be fully checked out before you try to use it without a spotter,” Fraser said.  “Certain machines really shouldn't be used without a spotter in any case, but we don’t have the manpower to handle it.  Try and see if there’s someone else in the area before you start exercising.”

George kept her thoughts to herself as Fraser showed them around a handful of compartments; the wardroom, serving food and drink to the crew; the bridge, the nerve centre of the giant battleship; Main Engineering, where the engineering crew kept the ship going; the tactical compartment, where she hoped she’d be working ... they were starting to blur together in her head as they stopped outside one final hatch, the hatch to sickbay.  A large red cross had been painted on the white airlock.

“The doctor wants to take a look at you two before clearing you for duty,” Fraser explained, shortly.  George winced.  Medical exams at the academy were always unpleasant, even when she hadn't been injured.  “Do you think you can find your way back to middy country?”

“I think so, sir,” George said.  She had her reader; she could download an updated deck plan, if necessary.  “If we can’t, we’ll just ask a passer-by.”

“How very feminine,” Fraser sneered.  His voice lowered.  “And you’d be wise not to listen, particularly when the ship is in a holding orbit.  Randy was sent halfway to Main Engineering before he realised that the helpful crewman was anything but.”

He shrugged.  “Once you return, I’ll introduce you to the other midshipmen and show you how to download your schedules,” he added.  “And then we can go through some basic lessons before you get some sleep.”

George watched him go, then glanced at Nathan.  “What did he say to you?”

“When we were alone?”  Nathan asked.  “He just told me that I’d be expected to work hard if I wanted to be cleared for shipboard duty.  Oh, and we are apparently going to be welcomed onboard the ship formally, once we leave orbit.”

“Oh,” George said.  It didn't sound as though Fraser had made any attempt to intimidate Nathan.  But then, Nathan didn't come from aristocratic stock.  His family might have a tradition of naval service, but it was very low-key.  “What do you think they have in mind?”

“Probably nothing good,” Nathan said.  “My father never talked about his time as a midshipman.”

George nodded.  Her uncle hadn't said much about his time as a midshipman either.  He was perhaps the most famous officer alive, save only for John Naiser, but he hadn't become famous as a midshipman.  And John Naiser had never been a midshipman.  Midshipmen were really nothing more than caterpillars, who might become a butterfly sometime in the far-off future.  A successful naval officer wouldn’t want to look back at his early years.

She sighed, then keyed the hatch.  There was no point in trying to escape.  It had been made clear to them, back at the academy, that failing to attend regular medical check-ups could lead to relief from duty, if the doctor had reason to believe they were concealing a dangerous medical condition.  The hatch hissed open, revealing a giant sickbay.  Thankfully, all of the beds within eyesight were empty.

We’re near Earth, she told herself.  Any accidents will be taking place down on the surface.

“Ah, new midshipmen,” a cultured voice said.  George turned to see a young man wearing a medical tunic emerging from a side door.  His office, she guessed.  “I’m Doctor Chung, Adam Chung.  Welcome onboard.”

“Thank you, sir,” George said.  A doctor wasn't technically in the chain of command - it struck her, suddenly, that she would have to die before Doctor Chung could assume command - but it was wise to treat him as a superior officer.  “Our medical records should have been forwarded to you.”

“They were,” Chung assured them.  “But I prefer to take baseline readings myself.”

He smiled, cheerfully.  “Who’s first?”

Chapter Seven

The midshipmen, Susan noted, looked like rabbits caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.

She kept her expression blank as the captain droned on, despite her amusement.  Captain Blake had kept his promise - or his threat -  to host a dinner party for the newcomers, inviting Susan, both new midshipmen and a handful of his older officers.  The food had been excellent, the wine a pleasant compliment to the meal - although she’d been quick to order the stewards to make sure the midshipmen didn’t get more than a single glass each - but the conversation had been minimal.  She couldn't help recalling some of the more awkward dance and etiquette lessons of her youth, where boys and girls had stumbled around awkwardly rather than learning the ropes.

“And so I welcome you to the most powerful ship in the Royal Navy,” Captain Blake finished.  It was customary for the captain to give a speech, true, but not one that lasted longer than five minutes.  “And I trust you will serve her faithfully.”

He sat down, then nodded to Susan, who rose and lifted her glass.  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said.  “I give you King Charles, Princess Elizabeth and the United Kingdom of Great Britain.”

She winced inwardly as the toast was echoed back by the small crowd of guests.  If it had been up to her, more guests would have been invited and the tables would have been spread out, allowing the junior officers to chat without the disapproving presence of their seniors, while she and Mason could talk to Captain Blake.  Instead, there were two tables, parked far too close together.  If Vanguard had been hosting a diplomatic dinner, she knew, Captain Blake would have a great deal of explaining to do the following morning.  It would be difficult for anyone to have a private conversation without everyone overhearing.

“You have done well, filling Commander Bothell’s shoes,” Captain Blake said, distracting Susan from her thoughts.  “I didn’t expect so much when I heard you were coming.”

“Thank you, sir,” Susan said.  It hadn't been hard, once she’d gotten over the surprise.  The ship’s various departments had been organised perfectly, in line with the very latest naval regulations.  Commander Bothell hadn't been a little OCD, he’d been anal.  “It’s a fascinating challenge, but I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

“Very good, very good,” Captain Blake said.  “Do you feel we can depart Sol as planned?”

“Yes, sir,” Susan said.  “We should have no trouble making our scheduled departure date.”

She sighed, inwardly.  Commander Bothell had done a very good job.  Vanguard had taken on thirty new crew, including the two new midshipmen, but her various departments were already assimilating them nicely.  There was nothing wrong with any of the senior crew, save for the captain himself.  He’d spent the last few days either watching over her shoulder or leaving her completely on her own.  If it hadn’t been for that, she would have honestly been delighted with the state of affairs on Vanguard.

“Then I will inform the Admiralty that we will depart on schedule,” Blake said.  “The war games will not wait for us, unfortunately.  We’re going to be testing ourselves against the Yanks and they’re not likely to make any foolish mistakes.”

“I hear their planned battleships are bigger than ours,” Susan said.  “Are we going to be testing ourselves against one of them?”

“Only against a fleet carrier or two,” Blake said.  “The details haven’t been set in stone.”

Susan nodded.  It wasn't easy to assemble over thirty starships from two different nations in a single system for war games, even if the two nations were closely allied.  Something might pop up that would require one or more of the ships to be diverted at short notice or simply force the war games to be cancelled.  It would have been a great deal easier to hold the war games in the Sol System, but everyone else - up to and including the Tadpoles - would have been able to watch and take notes.

Not that they won’t be able to take notes now, she thought, wryly.  They just have to work harder to spy on us.

“I wouldn't bet good money on a fleet carrier standing against our firepower,” Blake said, darkly.  “The Yank carriers were just bigger targets during the war.”

“They’ve built their own version of the Theodore Smith-class fleet carriers now, sir,” Susan reminded him.  “Those ships have quite heavy armour ...”

“Not enough,” Blake said.  “Fleet carriers have too many vulnerable points.  And even if they didn’t, our cannons are rated to burn through anything.  They’d be fools to let us come within weapons range.”

“And they’d find it hard to outrun us,” Susan agreed.  “Their only real hope would be slowing us down with their starfighters.”

She kept her face blank as the stewards appeared, carrying great trays of spotted dick, sticky toffee pudding and real fresh cream, shipped directly from Earth or one of the lunar dairy farms.  The discussion might have been interesting, it might even have been fun, but there was something about the way the captain spoke that bothered her.  As if ... he was reciting lines from memory, rather than actually thinking before he spoke.

“Their missiles could do us some real damage,” she said, carefully.  “If they took out a couple of our drive compartments ...”

“The point defence will keep them back,” Captain Blake said.  He took a spoonful of pudding, then looked at her.  “What do you make of the new middies?  Particularly the girl?”

I think I’m glad you’re not the one who has to work with her, Susan thought.  It wouldn't be easy for the girl, not when her family was both a blessing and a curse.  She had the nasty feeling the captain would practically have fawned on her, just in the hopes of pleasing her uncle.  And I notice you changed the subject very quickly.

“They look to be good kids,” she said.  “It’ll take them a while to get rid of that baby fat and turn into decent officers, but they’ll make it.”

It was true enough, she admitted privately, but she had other concerns.  The first middy was competent enough, she supposed, yet it was clear he was brooding over his lack of promotion.  Indeed, there was no written reason why he hadn't been promoted, but after meeting him Susan suspected his superiors had noted that he had a chip on his shoulder and chosen to leave him as a midshipman.  And yet, the longer he stayed as a midshipman, the lower the chances of actually getting promoted.  It was a situation that was just tailor-made for resentment.  

There, but for the grace of God go I, she thought.  She’d feared she too would be stuck on the very lowest rung, able to climb to the top if she could only reach the second rung.  I’d better keep an eye on him.

“I will need a new steward,” Captain Blake said.  “If I were to offer one of them the post ...”

He allowed his voice to trail off, suggestively.  “It would be bad for their careers, sir,” Susan said, keeping her voice level.  She was starting to have an idea why Commander Bothell had deserted.  Even if the captain thought he was doing some poor midshipman a favour, it would turn into a disaster.  “They need to hit the deck running, not waste their time serving as stewards.”

“I suppose,” the captain said.  “I expect you to keep me informed of their progress.”

“I’ll have a full report for you just prior to departure,” Susan assured him.  “And I won’t hesitate to send one of them back to the academy if they fail to come up to snuff.”

She wondered, absently, if he’d even bother to read the reports.  The earlier documents she’d sent for his signature had come back, signed and dated, within minutes.  If she’d wanted to organise a criminal ring, dedicated to stealing naval components and selling them on the black market, it would have been easy.  And if the captain had signed the paperwork, he’d take the fall when the audit finally caught up with them.

“I insist on being consulted first,” the captain said.  “See to it.”

“Yes, sir,” Susan said, irked.  As XO, the responsibility was hers.  The captain seemed inclined to second-guess her on matters that were her responsibility, while allowing her free rein on matters that were technically his.  “I’ll make sure you are aware of any issues prior to sending them back to the academy.”

Which would be the end of their careers, she thought, tiredly.  Poor kids.

She took a bite of her pudding and discovered, not entirely to her surprise, that it was very good.  The captain, it seemed, had ensured that Vanguard had a very good chef, a civilian given a temporary naval commission, rather than someone who’d been through the navy’s cooking course.  Although, she remembered, there was the old joke about the course being so hard that no one actually passed ...

“You hired a good cook,” she said, changing the subject herself.  “Where did you get him?”

“Poached her off Lord Hunter,” Captain Blake said.  He sounded pleased, even though it had probably been no more challenging than offering the cook more money.  “She is skilled, isn't she?”

And she shouldn't be here at all, Susan thought.  Is she even qualified to serve on a starship?

She made a mental note to check it out later, then pushed the thought aside.  Given all the other problems she had to solve, it was very much a minor issue right now.  A cook couldn't cause anything like as much trouble as a poorly-trained midshipman or an older officer who had been nursing a grudge for the past five years ...

“Ask her for the remainder of the pudding,” the captain said.  “She always makes more than strictly necessary.”

“Yes, sir,” Susan said.

***
George had attended more than her fair share of formal dinners; indeed, some of her earliest memories were of attending Christmas dinners at Buckingham Palace, once the war damage had been repaired.  She’d never really liked them, even though the food had always been excellent; the combination of poor speakers who were madly in love with their own voices and society dames who were happy to prattle on about the need for marriage and countless grandchildren had long-since curbed her enthusiasm for eating out.  She knew how to conduct herself at High Table, at least, but she would do everything within her power to decline an invitation.  

But we didn't get much of a choice, she thought, sourly.  We couldn't decline an invitation to the captain’s table without being dead.

“I bet you’re used to this sort of food all the time,” Fraser muttered, leaning close so only she could hear.  “Fancy dinners all the time, hey?”

“Not at all, sir,” George muttered back.  If she’d had any doubts about just how much Fraser disliked her, she would have lost them after he’d constantly given her the hardest and most demeaning tasks to do.  He rode the other midshipmen hard - she had to admit he had middy country well organised - but he reserved the worst of his attitude for her.  “I’ve been eating academy food for the last four years.”

She glanced up towards where the captain was sitting, next to the XO and his tactical officer, Paul Mason.  The captain had looked at her several times, she thought, and the only reason anyone would pay attention to her was because of her name.  It wasn't fair, she told herself, tiredly.  If only she’d been allowed to use a false name at the academy.  Prince Henry had gotten away with it and he’d been the heir to the throne!

“Yes, I suppose that would explain the smell in the toilets,” Fraser said.  “Make sure you give them an extra clean tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” George said, resignedly.  

She cursed under her breath.  As much as she hated to admit it, she was starting to think that Fraser believed there were thirty hours in a day, instead of twenty-four.  Between preparing for her role in the tactical department, reading endless briefing notes and exercising, she hardly had any time to handle the chores Fraser seemed determined to bury her in.  Nathan did as much as he could, but Fraser had made it clear that she was to handle her own chores.

It would be so easy just to leave, she thought.  Fraser had taunted her with the prospect of being put off Vanguard just before she left Sol, but she’d looked it up and he’d been right.  If she failed to impress her superiors, she could be returned to the academy.  It would mean the end of her career, at least on starships, but it was a possibility.  And a word of complaint from me in the right ears would ruin him.

She gritted her teeth.  It would be easy, so easy, but she was damned if she was letting him win.  Her semi-cousin had gone through hell to join the Royal Marines; his stories had chilled her to the bone, even though she’d known she had no intention of joining the marines.  And for all Fraser’s best efforts, he wasn't working her anything like as hard as the marine recruits.  Why, she even had twenty minutes to herself every day!

I can take it, she thought, scowling.  Whatever you pour onto me, I can take it.

“Dismissed,” the captain said, quietly.

George rose to her feet and followed Fraser, Nathan and two of the other midshipmen out of the compartment.  The captain hadn't spoken a word to any of them, but she saw him watching her - again - as she walked through the hatch and out into the corridors.  It had been an awkward dinner, she knew; too close to the senior officers for comfort, too formal to allow any real chatter.  Even Fraser hadn't had the nerve to speak out loud.

“We leave in two days,” Fraser said, after he pulled George and Nathan into the private compartment.  “I am required to ask now, for the record; do either of you want to leave this ship?”

“No, sir,” Nathan said.

“No, sir,” George echoed.

She thought she saw a flicker of disappointment on Fraser’s face, but it vanished too quickly for her to be sure.   Had he really wanted to drive her into quitting, despite the risks it raised for his career?  Or did he genuinely believe her inexperience made her a danger to the ship and her crew?  Fraser seemed nothing more than a bully, yet much of his advice, however presented, was sound.  She had the feeling he genuinely worked to care for the midshipmen under his supervision.

And he’s an asshole, she thought.  It doesn't excuse anything.

“Very well,” Fraser said.  “You’ve had most of your orientation, so tomorrow you join the main duty roster.  Bosworth, you will report to the helmsman at 0800; you’ll find the full details in your message box.  Try not to ram the ship into any asteroids or it’ll be taken out of your salary.”

“Sir, the odds of us hitting an asteroid are staggeringly low,” Nathan protested.

“And the odds of encountering alien life, fifteen years ago, were also staggeringly low,” Fraser pointed out, curtly.  “You’re not immune to incompetence or bad luck just because you’re flying a battleship instead of a starfighter.”

“I’ve never flown a starfighter in my life,” Nathan said.

“Try one of the simulators while you’re at Sin City,” Fraser said.  “You can fly down the Death Star trench, if you like, shooting off missiles all the while.  Or, if you have a friend in the training centre, you can borrow one of their simulators.”

He cleared his throat.  “Fitzwilliam, you will report to the tactical compartment at 0800 tomorrow,” he said, addressing George.  “I would suggest you made every effort to impress Commander Mason, but it’s probably a waste of time.  He’ll just take one look at your name and approve you for active service.”

“I don’t think he will, sir,” George said.  “My uncle would go ballistic.”

Fraser’s face darkened.  George knew, immediately, that mentioning her uncle, the First Space Lord, had been a mistake.  Admiral Sir James Montrose Fitzwilliam had spent half of his term in office battling officers who put family names ahead of service records - he’d admitted there was a certain level of hypocritical humour in the whole affair - but his success had been somewhat limited.  The Old Boy Network pervaded the entire navy.

“Your uncle’s opinion doesn't matter,” he snarled.  “You’ll report to Commander Mason and you’ll make damn sure you do a good job.”

“Yes, sir,” George said.

“Good,” Fraser said.  His voice calmed, slightly.  “I want you both to exercise, then scrub the toilets before you go to your bunks.  Remember to reset your alarms and don’t wake anyone when you get up.”

George nodded.  Nathan had accidentally awoken a midshipman on their second day, who had brutally cursed him out.  Fraser had assigned extra push-ups for punishment, promising that the next punishment would be a great deal worse.  George believed him.  After having been jerked awake far too often at the academy, it was hard not to feel that anyone who accidentally woke up a midshipman deserved the harshest of punishments.

“Go,” Fraser ordered.  “And report to me, tomorrow, after you complete your first duty shifts.”

George groaned.  Unless he was very quick, she would have hardly any time to eat before starting her second duty shift.  Maybe she could smuggle out a pair of ration bars and eat them on the way back to the tactical compartment.  Or maybe that was a bad idea.  There was no regulation against eating in the corridors, but it was frowned upon.  Fraser had threatened them with being ordered to mop the corridors before, after all.

I shall survive, she thought, eying Fraser.  And I will not let you drive me away.

“Yes, sir,” she said.  

Chapter Eight

It said something about the designer, Susan thought, that Vanguard’s bridge was easily the largest in the fleet.  Warspite’s bridge had been cramped, Cornwall’s bridge had only been marginally larger, but Vanguard’s was easily ten times larger than her cabin, even though it was crammed with consoles, holographic displays and a handful of comfortable chairs for visiting dignitaries.  She sat in the XO’s chair, next to the command chair, and watched as the crew made hasty preparations to depart Sol.  The omnipresent sound of the drives was growing louder, as if Vanguard herself was keen to depart.  Susan found it hard to blame the giant battleship.

She tossed the captain a sidelong glance, careful to keep her thoughts to herself.  It was standard procedure for the captain to be on one bridge and the XO to be on the other, just in case something went wrong, but Captain Blake had repeated his insistence that Susan join him on the main bridge.  There were captains who would cheerfully allow their junior officers to watch as the ship jumped out of the system, knowing it would be their first trip away from Earth, yet she was an experienced spacer.  She’d made her first jump on Warspite, over a decade ago.  It just didn’t make sense.

“Captain,” Lieutenant Theodore Parkinson said.  The communications officer looked up from his console.  “All five of our escorts report ready to depart on schedule.”

“Good,” Captain Blake said.  He glanced at the timer.  “Inform them that we will depart in ten minutes, barring accidents.”

Susan frowned, inwardly.  Captain Blake should also be informing Earth of his intended departure, just in case the Admiralty wanted Vanguard to remain in the system for some reason.  Most captains hurried to notify their superiors, just to enjoy the moment when they were truly independent, free of outside authority, but Captain Blake seemed oddly hesitant to cut his ties to Earth.  She’d wondered if he had a wife or mistress on Earth, yet - as far as she could tell - he’d spent all his time in his cabin.  And the ship’s manifest didn't imply that the captain had a ... companion on the ship.

Unless he’s bonking a crewwoman, she thought, darkly.  It would be a major scandal if he was, she knew, even if it was truly consensual.  A senior officer could not have a relationship with a junior officer - or a crewman - without raising the spectre of favouritism.  But the only person who seems to see him regularly is his steward.

She sighed to herself.  A week of going through Commander Bothell’s notes hadn't turned up anything interesting, beyond a handful of notes on the ship’s tactical performance that she intended to study once they departed Earth.  There was still no reason for his absense ... she was honestly starting to wonder if he’d gone swimming in the ocean and drowned, the undercurrents carrying his body well away from the mainland.  The Admiralty had ordered her to box up his possessions and send them back to Earth, but they hadn't shown any interest in searching his cabin or interviewing any friends he might have had amongst the crew.  If, of course, he’d had friends.  Commander Bothell’s log entries had made him sound like a human computer, rather than a living breathing person.

Pushing the thought aside, she looked down at her console as the flood of departmental updates began to appear in front of her.  Vanguard was a well-oiled machine, she had to admit; there had been no real problems in the week since she’d assumed the post and started to assert her authority.  The suspicious part of her mind insisted that she only needed to wait for the penny to drop, but it was hard to see what was likely to go wrong.  Commander Bothell had done a very good job.

And they wouldn't assign halfwits to a battleship, she reminded herself.  Collectively, Vanguard’s senior officers had over a hundred years of experience in their various fields, while the junior officers had been at the top of their years at the academy.  I barely need to do anything.

“Commander,” Captain Blake said.  “Perhaps you would care to take the conn?”

Susan blinked in surprise.  Very - very - few captains, at least in her experience, would give up the pleasure of commanding their ship as they departed the Sol System.  The only time it had ever occurred, in her experience, had been when Cornwall had been carrying the Second Space Lord back to Earth and he’d been a renowned commanding officer in his youth.  But for Captain Blake to give it to her?  It might have been a generous gesture, yet she couldn't help thinking that it was worrying.  She’d seen nothing to suggest the captain was a generous person.

“Yes, sir,” she said.  It was a honour - and it would have been a greater one if she hadn't been sure there was a sting in the tail somewhere.  “It would be my pleasure.”

She cleared her throat.  “I have the conn.”

“You have the conn,” the captain confirmed.

Susan braced herself as she studied the display.  Technically, the captain should have left the bridge, just to avoid confusion, but he was still sitting in his command chair, watching her through dark eyes.  Was this some sort of test?  Or was he blind to the implications, to the suggestion he didn't trust her to handle it?  Or ... she glanced down at her console, then cleared her throat again.  All she could do was carry out her duty and hope for the best.

“Helm,” she said.  “Lay in a direct course for the tramline to Terra Nova.”

“Aye, Commander,” Lieutenant David Reed said.  He was a thin bespectacled man, a man who would have looked more natural in a university than on a starship’s bridge, but his records suggested more than mere competence.  “Course laid in.”

Susan smiled, despite her worries.  Reed would have had the course plotted out hours ago, along with several other potential courses, or she’d eat her uniform jacket.  Hell, helmsmen were encouraged to play with their consoles when they weren't actually required to work, just to keep their skills sharp.  Vanguard wasn’t anything like as manoeuvrable as a cruiser or a destroyer, let alone a starfighter, but his skills might make the difference between life and death for the entire crew.

“Communications, inform Earth that we will depart in” - she glanced at the timer - “five minutes, then copy our primary datacore to Nelson Base,” she ordered.  The sealed message she’d prepared would be included in the dump, but it wouldn't go any further unless she was declared dead or missing.  “And then make one final check with our escorts.”

She sensed, more than heard, the captain stirring beside her, but he said nothing.  Vanguard didn't need an escort - the idea was absurd, given that she was the most powerful ship in space - yet she would have one until the war games were completed.  It made sense to travel in convoy, she supposed.  She hadn't been on Warspite for her maiden voyage, but she’d heard stories from the old sweats.  Losing power immediately after jumping through a tramline could have killed the entire crew.

“Aye, Commander,” Parkinson said.

Susan nodded to herself.  Parkinson wasn't just hyper-competent, judging by his file, but wasted in his current post.  There were only a hundred communications officers who could talk to the Tadpoles, all of whom had been assigned to the embassy on Tadpole Prime after completing their training.  She honestly wasn't sure why Parkinson had been assigned to Vanguard, unless someone at the Admiralty was anticipating either joint operations or another war.  Even if he’d hoped for his own command, one day, it was unlikely the Admiralty would let him.  There simply weren't enough officers with his skills.

I must talk to him at some point, she told herself.  And make sure he doesn’t resent his position.

“All ships confirm,” Parkinson added, after a moment.  “And Nelson Base has sent us a good luck message.”

“Good,” Susan said.  If she’d been the commanding officer, she would have been delighted at the simple message.  In theory, starship commanders were the masters of their ships but in practice the Admiralty could overrule any commanding officer in the Sol System.  And yet, now, they were ready to head out beyond the tramline.  “Helm, take us out of orbit and straight for the tramline.”

“Aye, Commander,” Reed said.

Susan felt the battleship quiver beneath her feet, but there was none of the faint sense of acceleration she recalled from her earlier posts.  The doctors insisted the crews were imagining it - a compensator accident would kill the entire crew instantly, if the system failed - yet starship crewmen were equally insistent that the sensation was real.  But on Vanguard, there was almost nothing.  She eyed the console, half-convinced they weren't moving at all; it insisted the battleship was departing orbit and heading directly for the tramline.  Maybe there was something different about the drives ...

Or maybe the ship’s too large to produce the sensation, she thought.  She’d experienced it on a fleet carrier, but no carrier - not even the legendary Ark Royal - was anything like as solid as Vanguard.  It could be spread through the hull ...

“Picking up speed now, Commander,” Reed reported.  “Tramline ETA: five hours, forty minutes.”

“Understood,” Susan said.  Vanguard was fast, but she needed to build up her speed gradually.  A smaller ship had a very good chance of making an escape before the battleship caught up with her.  “And our escorts?”

“Matching course and speed,” Mason reported.  He sounded oddly concerned.  “Commander, a courier boat left orbit five minutes after our departure, heading for the tramline.  She’s matching our course and speed.”

Susan glanced at Captain Blake?  Coincidence?  It wasn't as if the Admiralty could ban courier boats leaving orbit, even if the latest battleship was also leaving orbit.  But a courier boat should have been easily able to outpace Vanguard, reaching the tramline well before the battleship.  Matching course and speed was odd, to say the least.

She looked back at the display.  “Do you have an ID on the boat?”

“She’s civilian, Commander,” Mason said.  “British-flagged, but civilian.”

“Spies,” Captain Blake said.  “Is she within active sensor range?”

Mason hesitated.  Susan cursed under her breath.  Was Captain Blake resuming command?  If so, he should say so.  It was confusing now ... and, if all hell broke loose, it might well be lethal.  They couldn't afford a disagreement over who was in command of the battleship if energy starships appeared and opened fire.

“She’s not using active sensors, sir,” Mason said, finally.  “I don’t think she’ll be able to pull much from our hull.”

Susan studied the display, thinking hard.  The media?  No one outside the Admiralty, as far as she knew, had any reason to suspect that anything had gone wrong on Vanguard.  There had been no alert issued for Commander Bothell, no suggestion that he might have deserted ... there was no reason for the media to be taking an interest.  Or maybe there was.  The battleship was going to take part in war games, after all.  The media might be interested in seeing just what the Admiralty had done with the billions of pounds invested into shipbuilding by Parliament.

Captain Blake leaned forward.  “Is she within weapons range?”

Susan stared.  Was Blake mad?

“She’s within missile range,” Mason said, carefully.  Susan couldn't help thinking he sounded nervous.  Firing on hostile ships was one thing, but firing on a civilian courier boat - a British civilian courier boat - was insane!  “I don’t know what ECM countermeasures or point defence she’s carrying.  Hitting her might be tricky.”

“I see,” Captain Blake said.

Susan tensed.  She couldn’t allow the captain to fire on a civilian craft, not even if there was good reason to suspect it was carrying spies - or the media.  It would be a black eye the navy would never recover from, tainting the career of everyone on the ship.  She’d be lucky not to be hung if she allowed him to open fire.  Relieving the captain of command would probably cost her everything - it would certainly be the end of her career - but it was preferable to allowing him to kill a handful of civilians ...

“Keep a sharp eye on her,” Captain Blake ordered.  “If she comes closer, ready a marine boarding party.  She shouldn't be dogging our heels.”

“Aye, sir,” Mason said.

Captain Blake rose.  “Commander, you have the bridge,” he said.  “Inform me ten minutes before we jump through the tramline.”

“Aye, sir,” Susan said.

She kept her face expressionless as the captain strode off the bridge, despite the sweat trickling down her back.  Who’d been in command?  If they’d come under attack ...

And, just for a moment, you were convinced he was going to fire on a civilian ship, she thought, as she settled into the command chair.  Would Paul have opened fire on his command?

It wasn't a pleasant thought.  Mason had clearly been shocked, but orders were orders ... and yet, firing on a civilian craft could easily get him in deep shit.  There were illegal orders, after all, and blowing the courier boat out of space probably counted.  And yet, what could she do about it?  Anything she did could easily be construed as mutiny.  It was a nightmare.  She wanted to believe the captain had just been testing his crew, but it was impossible to convince herself that that was the truth.  For a moment, the captain had teetered on the brink of ordering an atrocity.

And there’s no way to prove it, either, she thought.  If I took it to the Admiralty, his connections would be enough to get any charges dismissed.

She cursed under her breath.  All she could do was watch, wait ... and pray that she could stop him before he went too far.

***
“I can't see anything,” George complained.  “There’s nothing there.”

Fraser laughed, unkindly.  “You’ve been watching too much Stellar Star,” he said.  “The tramlines are not visible to the naked eye.  Much like Stellar’s clothing.”

George felt her cheeks redden as she stared out of the observation blister.  Fraser had told Nathan and her that their presence wasn't desired on the bridge, but - after much angry grumbling - he’d reorganised their training rotas so they could be in the observation blister during transit.  She would have enjoyed it more if he hadn’t spent half the time telling them just how many favours he’d had to call in to get them half an hour of free time.

She grunted as Fraser elbowed her in the back.  “Did you watch the movies?”

“The naval personages in my family used to roar with mad laughter every time they came on, sir,” she said, without looking back.  “They thought they were hilarious.”

Fraser snorted.  “Even Stellar Star VII: The Republic Kicks Arse?”

George shrugged.  “My parents never let me watch that one.”

“I’ll have it shown when we have a moment,” Fraser said.  “Really, that girl gets around the navy.  She has a dozen aristocratic titles, five separate starships under her command ...”

“And she’s a champion Olympic diver too,” Nathan put in.  “The scene where she jumps fifty miles down to the water ...”

“Would probably not be survivable,” George said.  She’d done some diving in school, but the idea of falling over fifty miles before hitting the water ... it was absurd.  “And how much of her clothing did she lose along the way?”

“All of it,” Nathan said.

George rolled her eyes.  “Why am I not surprised?”

Fraser cleared his throat.  “You might want to watch carefully,” he said.  “We’re about to jump.”

“Thank you, sir,” George said.

She stared out into the darkness.  The stars burned constantly - there was no atmosphere in space to produce the twinkling effect - but they seemed to be fighting desperately to push back the shadows.  There was a religion, she recalled, that believed the darkness between the stars belonged to the devil, while the suns belonged to God.  The adherents prayed nightly for the light to drive back the darkness ... and claimed that the prevalence of darkness was caused by human sins ...

“Ten seconds,” Fraser said.  “Nine ... eight ...”

George tensed, feeling a hint of nervousness.  It would be her first jump ... what if something went wrong?  The Puller Drive rarely failed, but when it did the results were spectacular.  In five seconds, she’d be in another star system - or dead.  She braced herself ...

... And a faint sensation of ... something ... washed through the ship.

“I saw nothing,” she complained.  She'd expected the stars to blink out, then return.  “I ...”

“Some of the stars are in a different position,” Fraser pointed out dryly, as she turned to face him.  He smirked.  “Welcome to Terra Nova, homeworld of idiots, morons and lunatics who hate everyone from Britain, particularly government officials.  The greatest export is sane people who want to live somewhere - anywhere - else; the greatest import is guns and ammunition.  It is, in short, a shithole.”

Nathan frowned.  “Are we going to be landing there?”

“I rather doubt it,” Fraser said.  “Didn't you hear the part about them hating everyone from Britain?  If you go to the surface, you’ll be cut into tiny pieces and shipped around the globe.”

“Yuck,” George said.

“Quite,” Fraser agreed.  His smile turned into a leer.  “And, now you’ve made your first jump, it’s time to welcome you formally to the crew.  Your initiation starts this evening.”

“Oh,” Nathan said.

They shared a look.  Fraser had been dropping increasingly unpleasant hints over what was lying in store for them over the last four days, ranging from suggestions that they should bring clean underwear to make sure they were wearing bulletproof clothing.  George was sure he was exaggerating, but she wasn't looking forward to the coming ordeal.

And yet, she was damned if she was letting him win.

“We’ll be there,” she said.

Chapter Nine

“You know,” Mason said.  “I really thought he’d do it.”

Susan nodded, tightly.  It had taken some finagling to find a time when Mason and she could talk in private - he was the second officer, after all, and she wasn't sure she wanted to risk leaving the captain on the bridge - but she’d had no choice.  She couldn't keep the whole affair to herself or she’d go mad.  Or, for that matter, do something stupid.  It was just possible she was on the verge of making a terrible mistake.

“I thought he’d do it too,” she confessed, as she poured them both mugs of coffee.  It hadn't taken her long to locate the still - there was one on every ship, producing alcohol of dubious taste and worse quality - but she’d resisted the urge to take some of the booze for herself.  “I thought I’d have to relieve him on the spot.”

“It would have been easy to prove you had a right to relieve him,” Mason pointed out.  He took one of the mugs and nodded his thanks.  “Everything on the bridge is recorded.”

“That wouldn’t have saved my career,” Susan said.  She took a chair and sipped her coffee, grimacing slightly at the taste.  No one would award her points for coffee-making, whatever else she did.  “What’s wrong with him?”

It wasn't a question she dared ask anyone else.  Hell, if she hadn't known Paul Mason at the academy, she wouldn't have dared ask him either.  But he was the only person she thought she could trust on Vanguard; certainly, he was the only person she knew personally.  And besides, he’d served under Captain Blake for longer than anyone else, with the exception of some of the senior crewmen.

And Commander Bothell, she thought.  But I’m starting to think I know why he deserted.

“Well, we did spend our time watching dirty movies together,” Mason said.  “He has a dark sense of humour in private.”

Susan quirked an eyebrow.  “And the truth?”

Mason shrugged.  “I don’t know him, outside of the moments we meet on the bridge,” Mason said.  “There were a handful of formal dinners, but otherwise Commander Bothell handled everything - and I mean everything.  I think he was captain in all but name.”

“I’m starting to think you’re right,” Susan said.  “But it makes no sense.”

She’d downloaded a copy of the captain’s file while she’d been on Earth, although she hadn’t had a chance to read it until she’d settled into her new post.  Captain Sir Thomas Blake had a honourable record; his connections were among the best she’d seen, but he’d definitely acquitted himself well.  He’d served in the war, surviving several battles with the Tadpoles, and then commanded a ship during the brief Anglo-Indian War three years later.  It was a surprise that he hadn't been pushed up to Commodore or Admiral, yet it wasn't uncommon for commanding officers to resist promotion if they thought they could get away with it.  A starship command was far more exciting for a dedicated officer than a desk job, even if the desk job came with considerably greater authority.

And Commander Bothell was with him for over a decade, she mused.  What were they doing together?

Mason snickered, suddenly.  “Do you think he’s been replaced, somehow?  A robot?  Or an enemy spy?”

Susan rolled her eyes.  “You’ve been watching too many bad movies,” she said.  “How could a robot have passed through the medical screening?  Or an imposter duplicate the captain’s DNA?”

“Maybe the captain didn't report for his routine exam,” Mason said.  “And if someone could get a spy into a ship, surely they could replace the DNA records on file too.”

“If they have that sort of penetration they’ve already won,” Susan pointed out.  And yet, there was something about the idea that refused to die.  Commander Bothell might have been the only person close enough to Captain Blake to recognise a replacement.  What if someone had replaced the captain with an imposter?  “They wouldn’t need to replace the captain.”

“It wouldn't be easy to replace someone more senior than a starship commander,” Mason said, smoothly.  “The Admiralty runs regular security checks.”

Susan shook her head.  Even if someone could duplicate the captain, right down to his fingerprints and DNA code, far too many things could go wrong.  The command implants lodged within the captain’s hand would have to be removed and reprogrammed, particularly after the incident on Ark Royal.  Susan didn’t know precisely what had happened, but it had to have been serious.  New security measures had been introduced in record time.  Hell, coming to think of it, the captain’s DNA would be checked against his relatives.  Alarms would sound when it was clear there was no match.

“I think you have a great career ahead of you as a low-grade movie producer,” she said, finally.  “But this is reality.”

Mason looked disappointed.  “Reality is boring.”

“You’re on a starship travelling through another star system, en route to war games with our cousins,” Susan said.  “What’s boring about it?”

She dismissed the thought with a wave of her hand.  “I don’t understand it,” she said.  “The captain’s file makes him out to be an experienced officer, yet the man we saw on the bridge was hardly experienced.  He shouldn't have been promoted above midshipman, if that.”

“His connections are very good,” Mason pointed out.  “Someone could have covered for him.”

Susan rather doubted it.  The Old Boys Network was good - very good - at making sure that most promotions went to those with the correct connections, but it was dominated by serving officers who understood the stakes.  A decent officer would get a boost, true, yet a well-connected officer without competence would be pushed into a cushy desk job rather than being allowed to take command of a starship.  The near-incident on the bridge only illustrated the wisdom of that policy.  One disaster ran the risk of tearing the Old Boys Network apart.

It isn't enough to make sure that the right people get the right jobs, she thought, with a twinge of the old bitterness.  They have to be the right people for the right jobs.

“Maybe,” she said.  “But they’d be taking one hell of a risk.”

“They might not know,” Mason pointed out.  “Officially, there are no question marks in the captain’s file.”

Susan eyed him.  “You’ve been studying the file too.”

“Yeah,” Mason said.  “And unless there are aspects sealed away above my clearance, Commander, there’s no reason to doubt that Captain Blake can handle his post.”

Susan stared down at her coffee.  “If there was an accident ... I mean, something that happened to him.”

Mason looked relieved.  “I thought you were considering arranging an accident for him.”

“I think the Admiralty would not be amused,” Susan said, dryly.  Captains had died before, in accidents, but they’d always been carefully investigated.  Anyone who attempted to assassinate a commanding officer would wind up hung.  “Even if he is a potential danger.”

She cleared her throat.  “If something happened to him, over the last decade, wouldn't it have been noticed?”

“There’s no accident recorded in his file,” Mason said.  “And the only time he was in sickbay for anything more than a routine check-up was when he was badly scalded as a young officer, back during the war.  There wasn't anything more to the incident.”

“And he just got put back to work,” Susan said.  

She frowned.  Back when she’d been roped into rebuilding work on Earth, she’d read a paper by a noted psychologist predicting that the human race would recover quicker than anyone expected, despite the lack of psychiatric help.  Susan had found the paper rather amusing - civilian psychologists had never struck her as anything more than money-grubbing hypocrites - but the author had had a point.  It was hard to believe that there was something uniquely terrible about losing one’s home and family to rising floodwaters when hundreds of thousands of other people were in the same boat.  These days, no one wasted thousands of pounds on expensive mental treatment.  They just got back to work.

“I’ve been injured too, in combat,” Mason pointed out.  “It didn’t do me any harm.”

“It didn’t do you any harm,” Susan repeated, sarcastically.  “Really?”

“Oh, yes,” Mason said.  “I may have spent three months in a hospital on the moon, but there were some really cute nurses and a doctor who had an enormous ...”

“I don’t want to know,” Susan said, quickly.  Given how often Mason had visited Sin City, while they'd been at the academy, she was surprised he’d done as well as he had on his exams.  “And I'm sure that wasn't on the approved list of treatments.”

“It should be,” Mason said.  “Do you know one of the nurses used to ...”

“No,” Susan said.  She was no prude, but she’d heard enough exaggerated stories of sexual conquests during her time as a midshipwoman to take them all with a grain of salt.  Besides, she hadn't been able to fund trips to Sin City for herself.  “And I don’t want to know either.”

Mason shrugged.  “So,” he said.  “What are we going to do?”

“You’re not going to do anything, beyond keeping copies of my notes,” Susan said.  It was heartening to realise that Mason was prepared to risk his own career to help her, but she wasn't about to let him throw away his prospects for nothing.  “I’ll keep an eye on him and stay on the bridge as much as possible.”

“He does seem willing to let you handle everything,” Mason noted.  “Has he actually been on the bridge since the ... incident?”

Susan shook her head.  As XO, it was her job to organise the duty rosters for bridge crew, but by long-standing tradition the captain had the right to choose whatever shift he liked.  Somewhat to her surprise, although not entirely to her dismay, Captain Blake hadn't chosen any duty shift for himself.  She’d organised a rotating shift consisting of herself, Mason, Reed and Parkinson, but she had no idea what the captain had in mind.  Ironically, she knew she would have been relieved if the captain had openly stated he wouldn't be taking shifts when the ship wasn't actually heading into a combat situation.

“Maybe you could just claim the role by default,” Mason said.  “How long would you need to be an acting captain before they had to promote you anyway?”

“There’s no fixed limit,” Susan said.  In theory, anyone could be promoted to any rank, as long as it was an acting rank, but in practice it was rare for any such rank to be automatically confirmed.  “I could be the effective commanding officer for years and still not automatically succeed Captain Blake.”

“Something has to be done,” Mason said.  “We’re heading out for war games, remember, with Admiral Boskone in command.  I wouldn’t put good money on him not noticing Captain Blake’s ... issues.  He’d go through the roof.”

Susan nodded, curtly.  She’d heard of Admiral Boskone.  He’d been a Commodore during the Anglo-Indian War, then promoted to serve as commanding officer of the border guards for two years.  He had a reputation for being a sharp-tongued bastard, although no one doubted his tactical skill.  She rather doubted he would be pleased if the Royal Navy lost the war games because of Vanguard’s commanding officer.

“Maybe I should speak to him bluntly,” she mused.

Mason looked up.  “Admiral Boskone?”

“Captain Blake,” Susan corrected.  She looked down at her mug and scowled.  “Tell him that he needs to buck up before Admiral Boskone takes a good hard look at his records.”

“It would cost you your career,” Mason said, bluntly.  “Never make a weak man look small, Susan.  He’ll never forgive you for it.”

Susan sighed.  The relationship between captain and XO had been laid down for centuries, ever since the days when the Royal Navy had been messing around in boats instead of flying starships.  An XO was supposed to be the captain’s alter ego, watching his back, taking as much of the day-to-day burdens off his shoulders ... and, when asked, providing uninhibited commentary and advice.  Her superior officer on Cornwall had never contradicted the captain in public, but she’d heard him disagree - sometimes quite loudly - with the commanding officer in private.  And his career had never been harmed.  He’d been earmarked for CO of a cruiser when Susan had left the ship for the final time.  

Of course, she thought, a commanding officer is supposed to have been an XO.  He’d understand what the job entailed, even if he didn't like being contradicted in private.

She scowled.  “So what do I tell him?”

Mason met her eyes.  “You can't tell him he’s being an ass, because that could cost you everything,” he said.  “A simple comment in the margins of your personal report would be enough to damn you to Rockall.  And you can’t report him because that would probably be enough to damn your career anyway.  The captain’s connections will bring you down, unless you make a secretive approach and that could easily backfire.  All you can really do is wait until he crosses the line, then hope you can relieve him before he causes a real disaster.”

Susan glared at him.  “You mean like nearly blowing an innocent courier boat out of space?”

“It may not have been entirely innocent,” Mason pointed out.  “She vanished shortly after we passed through the tramline.”

“Maybe,” Susan said, doubtfully.  “But even if she was crammed to the gills with reporters, it wouldn't justify blowing her out of space.”

She looked down at her hands.  There was no reason for the courier boat to shadow Vanguard and her escorts all the way to the tramline, not when the courier could easily have given the warships a wide berth.  No, it suggested that the courier and her crew were interested in the battleship itself, which was worrying.  And yet, they could learn nothing through optical examinations of the ship’s hull, certainly nothing that wasn't already public.  She’d been careful to monitor off-ship traffic, but there had been nothing save for their final transmission before entering the tramline.  

“All we can do is wait, then,” she said.  She stood and poured herself a second mug of black coffee.  “What do you make of the new midshipmen?”

“Reasonably capable,” Mason said.  “Not a patch on us, of course.”

“Of course,” Susan agreed.

Mason smiled.  “Fitzwilliam has a good head on her shoulders for tactical problems, it seems,” he added.  “Asks good questions, never makes the same mistake twice ... Bosworth asked about one of the unpredictable tests and seemed a little put out when I told him it was meant to help him prepare for the unexpected, not what we knew we’d be facing.”

“It does tend to catch people by surprise,” Susan agreed.  “I fought a ship that was protected by forcefields and carried long-range energy weapons.”

She smiled at the memory, although it had been embarrassing at the time.  An outside-context enemy would be a complete surprise, she’d been told; the real purpose of the test was to see how quickly she reacted to an unexpected threat, rather than something she understood and trained to face.  Forcefields were the stuff of science-fantasy, like jumping through space without tramlines or sending messages at FTL speeds, even though the boffins kept claiming that they should be possible.  But no one had produced a working forcefield, let alone a portable tramline generator.  She wouldn't hold her breath waiting to see one.

“Yeah,” Mason said.  “I won ten pounds on that battle.”

Susan gave him a cross look.  “I won fifteen on yours.”

“No wonder you were buying the drinks that night,” Mason said, wryly.

“Back to the subject at hand,” Susan said, “do you anticipate any major problems?”

“With our two new midshipmen?”  Mason shrugged, then allowed his voice to become more formal.  “They’ve got a lot of baby fat to lose, Commander, and much of what they learned at the academy hasn't prepared them for the reality of shipboard life.  But they’re good kids and have a reasonable chance of actually mastering their responsibilities before we go back to war.”

Susan looked at him.  “Do you think we’re going to be fighting another war?”

“Humans are always fighting wars,” Mason said.  “The Indians are probably still smarting over the thrashing we gave them, while the Russians are brooding and the minor powers are plotting their own advance into space.  And then there’re the Tadpoles.  They might decide to restart the war at a moment’s notice.”

“I hope you’re being paranoid,” Susan said.

“Maybe,” Mason said.  “But you have noticed that the government has been pouring one-third of our total revenue into the navy and shipbuilding?  I don’t think we were spending so much on the military during the Troubles, when we were fighting for our survival.  Even now, ten years after the last war, they’re still building up the fleet.  Someone expects trouble.”

He paused.  “Not that I’m complaining,” he added.  “The more starships in active service, the greater the chance for a command of my own.”

“I can understand that,” Susan said.  “I feel the same way too.  A command of my own ... that would be a dream come true.”

She finished her second mug of coffee, then rose.  “If you don’t mind, I have to be on the bridge in two hours ...”

“... And you want a catnap,” Mason finished.  He rose, putting the mug down on the table as he walked towards the door.  “I’ll speak to you soon, all right?  You’re not alone here.”

“As long as the captain doesn’t know it,” Susan said.  She met his eyes for a long moment, trying to convey her message.  “There’s no point in both of us going down in flames.”

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