A Small Colonial War

(Ark Royal, Book VI)

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

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Cover by Justin Adams

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Dedication

To the men and women of the British Armed Forces.

“If you desire peace, prepare for war.”

Prologue (I)

Published In British Space Review, 2208

Sir.

With the benefit of hindsight, it is alarmingly clear that the Indians manipulated events on Vesy from the start.

They could not, of course, have known that HMS Warspite (and a handful of Russian deserters) would stumble across a planet of primitive aliens.  Despite the presence of tramlines within the system that lead to Indian-controlled systems, they were certainly unaware of Vesy, if only because they could have laid claim to the system themselves long before Warspite arrived.  However, the speed of their reaction - and their capture of Pegasus -- suggests they had a plan drawn up for military operations long before the start of the crisis, which was hastily updated when Vesy was discovered.  Vesy, therefore, merely provided an excuse.

I have to admit that they played their role masterfully.  While we - and the other Great Powers - attempted to deal carefully with the Vesy, the Indians met them as equals, dealt with them openly and offered unlimited supplies of weapons and ammunition.  Furthermore, it is now clear that the Indians also encouraged their Vesy allies to wage war on our Vesy allies.  The combination of weapons, technical advice, protection from orbital bombardment and the promise of much - much - more was decisive.  Our base on Vesy, Fort Knight, was effectively smashed and our position destroyed.  Captain Naiser’s decision to withdraw from the system cannot be faulted, at least on a tactical level.  However, it left the Indians in possession of the system and in a position to rapidly expand their grip on the sector.

Politically, their objective appears to be two-fold.  One: to secure acknowledgement of themselves as a Great Power, with all the rights and responsibilities claimed by the Big Five.  Two: to secure control over Vesy, Pegasus and Cromwell, thus allowing them to claim ownership of both their tramlines and the star systems beyond.  If left unchecked, the Indians will be in a position to dictate settlement of twelve known Earth-like worlds and untold numbers of stars and planets beyond.  Their grip on the chokepoints represented by the tramlines will be unshakable.

It goes without saying that we cannot allow this land grab on an interstellar scale to succeed, regardless of the cost.  The various treaties governing interstellar settlement are at risk.  We claimed Pegasus, in line with the treaties; we cannot allow the Indians to invade and occupy the system permanently, if only to prevent other powers from trying to lay claim to Britannia, Nova Scotia and our other settled worlds.  This precedent, if allowed to stand, will undermine the basis of interstellar settlement for hundreds of years to come.  

Furthermore, the Indians have committed acts of war.  They have killed - directly or indirectly - dozens of British personnel and civilians, as well as personnel from several different nations.  We cannot allow them to get away with their crimes.  It will make us look weak, unwilling to stand up for our interests - and, if we learned nothing else from the Age of Unrest, it was that weakness invites attack.  Indeed, the Indians would not have dared pick a fight with us before the First Interstellar War gravely weakened the Royal Navy.  With several other interstellar powers - if second-rank powers - girding their loins to overthrow the pre-war order, we cannot let this challenge go unanswered.

There is no room for a diplomatic solution.  This is not a dispute over just which party discovered a new system first, nor is it a skirmish over mining rights between a pair of asteroid miners.  The Indian occupation of Pegasus and de facto claim to Vesy is a naked act of aggression, cloaked in a tissue-thin set of justifications that have no mileage outside India itself.  Anything short of the recovery of Pegasus and the reopening of Vesy would be indistinguishable from allowing the Indians to get away with their actions.

The future of Britain as an independent spacefaring power is in doubt.  I look to the men and women of the Royal Navy to take the offensive and show the galaxy, once again, the fighting spirit that saved Britain from collapse and took our nation to heights undreamt of by our ancestors.

Yours

Admiral Sir Joseph Porter (Ret.)

Prologue (II)

Government Bunker, New Delhi, India

“You do realise this is a gamble?”

Prime Minister Mohandas Singh nodded, not bothering to turn away from the starchart to acknowledge the presence of Chaudhuri Bose, his Foreign Minister.  Bose had been a mistake in his opinion, a man forced on him by political realities.  He simply lacked the nerve to do what had to be done, while Mohandas - in his own opinion - knew all too well that there were times when one needed to gamble.  The future of India as an independent spacefaring power hung in the balance.

“I have sent the ultimatum to the British,” Bose said, when Mohandas made no response.  “It will not be long before they respond.”

He paused, significantly.  “Do you expect them to surrender without a fight?”

“They will be alone,” Mohandas said.  “The Americans are having their election, the French are too concerned about their internal politics to care about either Vesy or Clarke and the other Great Powers are neutral.  They will have to face us on their own.”

“They have more ships than us,” Bose pointed out.

“We have more modern ships,” Mohandas countered.  He swung round to scowl at the Foreign Minister.  Bose had simply never impressed him.  Like all diplomats, he was far too prepared to compromise with his fellows, making concessions just to get them to sign on the dotted line.  Hell, he even wore a western suit and shaved his beard.  “And they cannot afford to weaken themselves any further.”

He smiled at the thought.  It wasn't pleasant to admit that India owed her present position - a fair match for a Great Power for the first time in a century - to the first human-alien war, but it was true.  The Tadpoles had weakened all of the Great Powers, leaving them unable - and perhaps unwilling - to fight to maintain their supremacy.  If the British swallowed their pride and conceded the Indian demands, they would be weakened ... but if they fought, they would weaken themselves still further.  A victorious war would cost them badly at a time when neither they nor any of the other Great Powers could afford to be weakened.

“They may feel they will be challenged again, if they concede our demands,” Bose offered.

That, Mohandas had to admit, was true.  If there was one lesson Britain - and the other Great Powers - had drawn from the Age of Unrest, it was that showing weakness was fatal.  They’d put that lesson to good use too, taking control of space and hammering any rogue state that showed itself inclined to cause trouble beyond its own borders.  Until the Tadpoles had shown themselves, the British military had been primarily involved in punitive strikes.

And we wouldn’t have risked taking the offensive before the war, he thought, privately.  We would have lost the shooting match.

It was a galling thought.  India had worked itself into a position of power after the British had withdrawn from India, only to lose it during the Age of Unrest.  The social unrest, the riots, the final war with Pakistan ... they had all cost India dearly.  They’d been slow to take advantage of new developments in drive technology and slower also to establish extra-solar colonies.  By the time India could reasonably call itself an interstellar power, the Great Powers were way ahead of it.  They’d flatly refused to grant India the honour of considering it another Great Power.

And it was something Mohandas wanted for India, wanted very much.

“We have a window of opportunity,” he said, flatly.  “Five years, perhaps ten ... the window will be closed.  Or we may have a second war with the Tadpoles.  We have to move now.”

He looked up at the starchart, thinking hard.  The original plan had been to take control of Clarke - before the British could turn it into a major colony - and demand Great Power status in recognition of the fact they could not be dislodged without a major war.  Mohandas would have happily returned Clarke to the British in exchange for that single concession, for the acknowledgement that India was completely independent of the rest of the human race.  But Vesy ... the discovery of Vesy had been a stroke of luck.  Now, India would not only control access to two whole sectors, but an entire alien race.  And who knew what the Vesy would become, given time?

But it also meant that British personnel were killed when we moved to secure Vesy, he thought, grimly.  They may find it harder to back down.

Bose cleared his throat.  “And if they do go to war?”

“Then they will have to rely on their navy against ours,” Mohandas said.  He studied the starchart for a long moment, silently calculating vectors.  It would take the British several months to put together a task force, if nothing else.  His men would have time to dig in ... if, of course, the British didn't concede defeat without a fight.  “And we will have more modern ships and the advantage of the interior defence.”

“I hope you’re right,” Bose said.  He made no attempt to hide the doubt in his voice.  “This could cost us everything.”

Mohandas nodded, curtly.  Bose was right.  It could cost India everything, although the Solar Treaty would ensure that losses were limited.  India would be humiliated, her extra-solar interests would be claimed by the British and her navy would be crippled.  They’d be the laughing stock of the planet.  Even the Tadpoles would be sniggering ...

But the prospect of victory was worth the risk.

“Keep talking to the other powers,” he ordered.  He rather doubted it would make much difference - the British were a Great Power, after all - but it was worth trying.  “Convince them, if you can, to put pressure on the British.”

And stay out of military affairs, he added, silently.  This is no place for milksops.

Bose bowed.  “Of course, Prime Minister,” he said.  “I shall pray for us all.”

Chapter One

Clarke III, Pegasus System

“The tin-cans are retreating, Governor.”

“Understood,” Governor Harry Brown said.  “Did they inflict any damage?”

“I don’t believe so,” Lillian Turner said.  She’d never expected to be manning a tactical console, but she was the closest thing to a tactical officer on the colony.  “They merely exchanged long-range fire with the Indian ships and then bugged out.”

She sucked in her breath, feeling fear pulsing through her chest.  She’d grown used to the thought of spending the rest of her days on Clarke; it might not be Earth, or even Luna City, but the rapidly-growing colony did have a sort of charm.  The colonists had eyed her doubtfully for a few months, then decided her obvious willingness to work - and make up for the sins of the past - was a point in her favour.  She'd even made a handful of friends.  But now ...

I may be sent back to Earth, she thought, morbidly.  And who knows what will happen to me there?

“Keep monitoring them,” Brown ordered.  The Governor hadn't been one of her biggest supporters at first, but he’d given her a fair chance.  “Let me know if they attempt to communicate with us.”

“Yes, sir,” Lillian said.

She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the viewscreen and sighed.  Her dark eyes looked tired and worn and her dark hair was hanging down around her face; her pale skin looked too pale after months on Clarke, where the sun barely shone.  She hadn’t had much sleep since the first warning message from Vesy ... and none, since the Indian ships had jumped into the system and commenced a leisurely flight towards Clarke.  They could have been at Clarke within hours, if they’d pushed their drives hard.  Instead, they’d taken over a day to make a slow stately progress to the gas giant’s moon.

Probably wanted to make us sweat, she thought, darkly.  They know damn well no one’s coming to help us.

Her eyes sharpened as new icons appeared on the display.  “Governor,” she said.  “They’re launching assault shuttles.”

The Governor rose to his feet and paced over to stand behind her.  “ETA?”

“Thirty minutes,” Lillian said.  He didn't ask where they were going, but then there was no real need.  There wasn't anywhere else on Clarke III worth visiting, save for the colony and its two thousand colonists.  “They’re not even trying to hide their presence.”

“They may be a little bit nervous about flying through the snowstorms,” the Governor said, curtly.  “We’re nervous and we’ve been on this planet for a year.”

Lillian rather doubted it - the Royal Marines she’d met had been gung ho about diving into hurricanes and she had a feeling the Indian marines were very similar - but she kept that thought to herself.  Instead, she tracked the Indian shuttles as they entered the atmosphere, monitoring them through the handful of stealthed satellites in orbit.  The Indians would find them eventually and shut them down, she was sure, if they bothered to make the effort.  Both sides knew the colony couldn't hold out for long.

“My best guess is that they’re going to come down near Davis Mountain,” she said, as the shuttles dove further into the planet’s atmosphere.  “That would put them within easy walking distance of the colony.”

“Looks like it,” the Governor agreed.  

He stepped back and keyed his wristcom, then started to mutter orders to the scratch defence force.  A handful of soldiers - mainly reservists - and a couple of colonial policemen ... it wasn't enough to do more than slow the Indians down for a few minutes.  Lillian and the other colonists had been digging trenches and improvising traps ever since they’d gotten the word, but they simply didn't have the men to hold for long.

And if the Indians get tired of our defiance, they can simply drop rocks on us from high overhead, Lillian thought, grimly.  They can smash us flat if they don’t mind losing the colony.

It was a chilling thought.  There had been an agreement - ever since the human race had started expanding through the tramlines - that colonies weren't to be bombarded indiscriminately.  Whatever the cause of the disagreement - or war - it didn't excuse destroying the only thing keeping humans alive in the unforgiving vastness of interstellar space.  But if the Indians had been prepared to allow countless people to die on Vesy, they might well be prepared to bombard Clarke into submission from orbit.  They wouldn't be able to use the colony for themselves ...

They’ll want the colony, she told herself, hoping desperately that she was right.  It would take them too long to duplicate our work.

Her console beeped, once.  “Sir,” she said.  “The Indians have landed.”

“Try and get a drone over there,” the Governor ordered.  “I’ll have the defenders stand ready.”

Lillian nodded, clicking through the options on her screen until she located the drones and launched one into the air.  She’d flown drones before, on Earth, but it was nowhere near so easy to fly them on Clarke.  The snowstorms would happily knock a drone out of the air if she made a single mistake, leaving the colony without any eyes in the sky.  Indeed, the Governor had banned flying drones in anything other than the direst emergencies.  The beancounters on Earth would complain - loudly - if Clarke expended them all within the first month.

We should have practiced flying them anyway, she thought, as the drone made its way towards Davis Mountain.  Davis had been a colonist who’d gone climbing in a protective suit, only to be caught in an avalanche and buried somewhere below the half-frozen ocean.  We might have been able to improve the drone guidance systems before now.

She gritted her teeth as a particularly nasty gust of wind slapped the drone, sending it cart-wheeling across the sky before she managed to regain control.  The RPV had a computer core that was meant to handle the basics of flying, but it hadn’t developed its own understanding of the environment yet.  In theory, a drone that crashed could have the core salvaged and loaded into another drone - thus allowing the second drone to learn from the mistakes of the first - but in practice they simply hadn't wanted to waste the tiny vehicles.  That, she suspected, might have been a mistake.

“Contact,” she said.  “Three shuttles; seventy armoured men.”

The Governor bent over her shoulder - so close she could smell the odour of tobacco on his breath - as the Indians came into view.  The assault shuttles didn't look that different from British designs - the war had forced the various Great Powers to standardise as much as they could - but the armoured combat suits looked more primitive than the suits she’d seen on Warspite.  Their wearers were already starting the short march towards the colony.  Behind them, a handful of light tanks rolled off the shuttles, one of them rotating a gun to point towards the drone.  Moments later, the screen went blank.

“Contact lost,” she said, formally.  “They’re on their way, Governor.”

“Noted,” the Governor said.

The minutes ticked by with agonising slowness.  Lillian knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the defenders couldn't hope to win, yet she also knew the Governor couldn't simply order a surrender.  Whatever happened afterwards, the colony could not be said to have surrendered without a fight.  But as the monitors started to pick up the advancing forces, she found herself wishing the Governor would change his mind.  She knew some of the men out there, girding themselves for a brief struggle.  Some of them had disliked her - the policemen had kept a sharp eye on her for the first two months - but none of them deserved to die for nothing.

She winced as the radio buzzed.  “I have nine armoured men in my sights,” Sergeant Harkin said.  He was actually a retired soldier, someone who’d been demobbed two years after the war and secured a posting to Clarke for reasons that he’d never really shared with anyone else.  Lillian liked him more than she cared to admit.  “They’re advancing towards the first trench.”

“Engage at will,” the Governor ordered.

Lillian closed her eyes for a long moment as the first set of combat reports came in.  The defenders fired a handful of shots, then fell back to the next line of defences, forcing the Indians to waste time clearing trenches that were already abandoned.  A handful of Indian soldiers were caught in improvised traps - she felt a moment of vindictive glee as it became clear that a handful of intruders would never see India again - but it wasn't enough to do more than annoy the advancing soldiers.  They knew as well as she did that they had all the time in the world to clear the trenches.  

“Nine intruders down,” Sergeant Harkin reported.  “I ...”

His message cut off.  Lillian glanced at the sensors and cursed under her breath as she realised the enemy had hit his position with a missile.  The remaining defenders were pulling back, but they were rapidly running out of space.  It wouldn’t be long before the Indians were in a position to either storm the colony doors or merely blast their way through the prefabricated walls.  Either way, the colony couldn't hold out any longer.

The Governor evidently agreed.  “Contact the Indians,” he ordered.  “Now.”

Lillian swallowed as she tapped commands into her console.  The Indians hadn't even tried to open communications.  She couldn't help wondering if that meant the Indians had no interest in demanding and accepting surrender.  The remaining defenders were still trying, but their position had been hopeless from the start ...

“I have a link,” she reported.  The screen blinked to life, showing a dark-skinned man with a neatly-trimmed beard.  “Governor?”

The Governor cleared his throat.  “I am Governor Harry Brown, Governor of the Pegasus System.”

“I am General Anjeet Patel,” the Indian said.  He didn't seem inclined to beat around the bush.  “Your position is hopeless.”

“I understand,” the Governor said.  His voice was tightly-controlled, but Lillian could hear the hint of anger underlying his words.  “I wish to open talks ...”

“My terms are quite simple,” Patel said, cutting him off.  “You will order your remaining defenders to surrender and open the doors, allowing my men to occupy the colony.  You will make no attempt to destroy your computers, your life support infrastructure or anything else that may be required.  You may destroy classified files, but not anything relating to the colony and its personnel.”

He paused for a long moment.  “For the duration of the present emergency, Clarke III will be governed under Indian military law.  Your people - military and civilian - will have nothing to fear as long as they obey orders.  Prisoners will be treated in line with the standard Luna Conventions.”

Lillian nodded to herself, unable to keep herself from feeling relieved.  The Great Powers showed no mercy to insurgents, revolutionaries and terrorists, but the Luna Conventions applied to national troops who hadn't been caught breaking the laws of war.  It would have been insane for the Indians to act otherwise, yet the mere act of starting a war was insane when it would only weaken humanity.  Who knew what the Tadpoles would do?

“I understand,” the Governor said, stiffly.  “However, I am quite unable to acknowledge the permanent surrender of either the colony or the system itself.”

“That is understood,” Patel said.  “My men will advance to secure the colony.”

His image vanished from the display.  Lillian heard the Governor mutter a curse under his breath before keying his wristcom and issuing the surrender order.  She felt an unpleasant knot in her stomach as she watched through the cameras as the Indians closed in on the defenders, who had dropped their weapons and were standing with their hands in the air.  The Indians seemed to be trying to be reasonably civilised, but they were still careful to escort the prisoners - at gunpoint - into a tracked vehicle before opening the doors and entering the colony.  

“Purge the classified files,” the Governor ordered, quietly.

He sounded defeated.  Lillian felt a chill running down her spine as she keyed the command into the system, starting off a process that would wipe, reformat and finally destroy the classified datacore.  The Governor hadn’t had many secrets, she was sure, but destroying his codes and ciphers was a tacit admission that all was lost.  She nodded to herself as the destruction was confirmed, then verified; she glanced at the Governor, who was watching as the Indians slowly advanced though his colony.  Civilians who stumbled into their path were told to return to their quarters and wait for orders.

“At least they're not brutalising the civilians,” the Governor mused.  He sounded as though he were speaking to himself, rather than to her.  “But they’ll need them, won’t they?”

Lillian nodded.  Clarke wasn’t a habitable world.  It had taken two months of intensive effort to build up a life support infrastructure, let alone establish a geothermal power source and start mining for raw materials.  The Indians would need to secure the colony, but they’d also need the men and women who made the colony work, at least until they brought in their own people and learned the ropes.  They’d have to be insane to mistreat the civilians.

But the sick feeling in her chest wouldn't go away.  It felt like hours before the Indians finally stepped into the control centre and looked around, holding their weapons at the ready.  Lillian hadn't been so scared since the day she’d been arrested on Warspite.  The Indian soldiers looked tough, determined and utterly ruthless.  She’d been taught the basics of shooting - several ships had been boarded during the war - but she knew she was no match for them.

“Step away from the console,” one of the Indians ordered.  “Now.”

Lillian obeyed, careful to keep her hands visible at all times.  She had only been a lowly engineering officer, but she’d had the same training program as every other junior officer; she knew, all too well, that the first hours of an invasion and occupation were always the worst.  The invaders would be jumpy, unsure of their ground, while the locals would be unwilling to tamely accept occupation.  Accidents happened ... and it was unlikely that anyone would care if the Indians shot her.  The years when lawyers paralysed trigger fingers were long over.

Another Indian strode into the control centre, wearing a dress uniform.  Lillian had to admit he looked handsome, but there was a coldness in his eyes she didn't like.  The men following him took the consoles and went to work, pulling up the operating subroutines and examining them quickly, looking for backdoors, viruses and other hidden surprises.  Lillian knew they wouldn't find anything more significant than a handful of porn caches the Governor wasn't supposed to know about.  Clarke’s system just wasn’t large enough to hide much more.  

And we didn't exactly expect occupation, she thought, sourly.  We would have rigged the system thoroughly if we had.

“Governor,” the Indian said.  “I am Colonel Vasanta Darzi, Governor of Clarke.”

Lillian saw the Governor tense, but he kept his voice under tight control.  “Harry Brown,” he said, shortly.  “Governor of Clarke.”

The Indian shrugged.  “My men have occupied the colony,” he said.  “From this moment onwards, Clarke will be governed under my law.  I expect your people to assist in maintaining the colony for the foreseeable future, until the current ... unpleasantness is cleared up.  Under the circumstances, this may cause some awkwardness with your government; in the event of your people being threatened with charges of treason or collaboration, we will be happy to testify that you were forced to work under duress.”

And the Government might not buy it, Lillian thought.  There was a fine line between working under duress - real or implied - and outright collaboration.  And the people on the spot might not be able to see that line.  They would be judged harshly by outsiders who had never been within a hundred light years of Clarke.  If they feel otherwise, we may wind up going home to our deaths.

“My personnel should not be forced to work on defences or military-related projects,” the Governor said.  “I believe my government would understand the need to keep working on life support.”

“That is understood,” Darzi said.  “In the long term, your personnel will be free to relocate themselves to British territory or apply for Indian citizenship.  If they choose the former, the Indian Government has already agreed to pay for their relocation and compensate them for their efforts on Clarke.  

“However” - he held up a hand warningly - “I am also obliged to warn you that any resistance, active or passive, will be treated as a hostile act.  Any attacks on my personnel or attempts to sabotage the defences will be severely punished, in line with the Luna Conventions.  Insurgents and those who support them will face the death penalty.  I advise you to make that very clear to your personnel.”

“I understand,” the Governor said, tartly.

Lillian cringed, inwardly.  British territory hadn't been occupied since the Second World War, unless one counted the social unrest of the Troubles.  No one knew how to behave under enemy occupation ...

“I do not, however, believe that my government will simply concede Clarke to you without a fight,” the Governor added.  “In that case, I expect you to do everything you can to protect the civilian population.”

“In that case, we will certainly try,” Darzi said.  Oddly, Lillian had the feeling he meant every word.  India wouldn’t look very good if innocent civilians were caught in the crossfire.  “But by the time your military can respond, if your government is intent on a fight, we will be ready.”

Chapter Two

10 Downing Street, London, Earth

“There’s a line of protesters outside, sir,” the driver said.

“Stay clear of them,” Vice Admiral Sir James Montrose Fitzwilliam ordered.  It had been years since the violent protests that had shaken London to the core, but memories ran deep among the elite.  “Get us past the gates and into Downing Street as fast as you can.”

“Aye, sir,” the driver said.

James sucked in his breath as the car passed the protesters, half of whom seemed to be carrying banners condemning the Indians.  The other half seemed to be a mixed group, ranging from pacifists to Britain First; the latter, idiotically, demanding that money and resources be lavished on rebuilding Britain rather than expanding the navy and securing the peace.  A long line of policemen stood between the two groups, while a handful of armoured soldiers waited at the gates to Downing Street.  Protests were fine - they were a way to blow off steam - but outright violence would be squashed with terrifying speed.  London could not risk a return to anarchy.

And we came close to that during the war, James thought.  He’d been on Ark Royal at the time, raiding enemy space and blissfully unaware that the enemy was returning the favour by attacking Earth.  They’d never had the slightest awareness that Earth was threatened until they returned home to discover that the planet had been attacked.  A second round of chaos will destroy us.

He pulled a small mirror out of his pocket and inspected himself quickly.  At forty-five, with jet-black hair and shaven face, he still looked reasonably handsome, although he was grimly aware that he was no longer as spry as he used to be.  The war - and the long battle to rebuild the Royal Navy afterwards - had taken its toll.  He closed the mirror, picked up his briefcase and braced himself as the car rolled to a stop.  Moments later, the driver opened the door and saluted as James climbed out.  The policemen standing outside Ten Downing Street waved him through the door without hesitation.  They’d have checked his Navy ID as the car passed through the gates.

“Admiral Fitzwilliam,” a young woman said.  She was probably in her early twenties, he decided, with long brown hair tied into a bun.  The suit she wore made her look rather like a penguin, he decided, but he knew better than to underestimate her.  She wouldn't have reached her position so young unless she was highly competent.  “They’re waiting for you in the COBRA Room.”

“Thank you,” James said.

He clutched his suitcase tightly as the girl led him down a long flight of stairs into the bunker complex below Ten Downing Street.  It might look like a row of houses, but in reality it was a facade; the houses had long since been woven together into a single huge complex, the tip of the iceberg.  Below them, there was a network of bunkers, administrative centres and barracks for troops.  The real work was done far from the prying eyes of the public and the media.  They passed two security checkpoints before finally coming to a halt in front of a set of sealed doors.  Someone’s child had drawn a painting of a cobra and left it there, marking the room.  James couldn't help smiling at the image as the doors were opened, allowing him to step into the room.

“James,” Uncle Winchester said.  “Please, take a seat.”

James nodded, curtly.  Uncle Winchester - Henry Winchester, Secretary of State for Defence - had been trying to shape his life for years.  In hindsight, James had to admit he might have had a point, but it didn't please him to be a pawn in his uncle’s games.  Or, for that matter, to be forced to choose between loyalty to his superior officer - a man he had come to respect - and loyalty to his family.  He accepted a cup of tea from the steward and glanced at the clock on the wall as a handful of other attendees stepped into the room.  There was no sign of the Prime Minister.

“The latest news isn't good,” Uncle Winchester muttered.  “I’ve heard ...”

He broke off as the doors opened, admitting Prime Minister Steven Goodwill.  James rose to his feet, along with everyone else, as the Prime Minister made his way to the head of the table and sat down, his gaze sweeping from face to face.  The doors closed firmly as the rest of the attendees sat down, the stewards returning to their seats beside the drinks machine.  They’d be cleared for everything, James knew, but it still felt like a security nightmare to him.  And yet, he had the feeling that most people in the room would be horrified at the thought of getting their own tea.

“Gentlemen,” the Prime Minister said.  His voice was very cold.  “It is no exaggeration, I feel, to say that today’s meeting may decide the fate of the British Commonwealth.”

He paused.  James watched him carefully, wondering just which way the Prime Minister would jump.  The man had guided Britain through five years of recovery, a task that had turned his hair grey, but did he have the nerve to resist the Indians?  To commit Britain to an interstellar war against a human enemy?  Or would he look for an excuse to pull back and concede defeat?

The Prime Minister nodded to the young woman.  “Sandra?”

Sandra cleared her throat as she tapped a switch.  A holographic starchart appeared above the table, glowing with tactical icons.  James silently parsed out the tramlines that led to Pegasus, Cromwell and Vesy, noting with disgust that all three of them were shaded in red.  He, at least, had no doubts about what should be done.  The Indians could not be allowed to get away with such blatant acts of aggression.

“Thank you, Prime Minister,” Sandra said.  She’d be one of the Prime Minister’s personal intelligence officers, James decided.  “The situation is as follows.

“The Indians have definitely occupied both Vesy and Pegasus - specifically, Clarke III,” she said.  “We believe they have occupied Cromwell too, but the only evidence we have for that is a flash message relayed down the chain of communications beacons before the Indians took the beacons offline.  In any case, our tactical staff believes that the Indians would have good reason to occupy Cromwell.  They would find it easier to block our advance through that system.

“Despite their advance, losses have been minimal.  There was a brief exchange of fire at Clarke III before the destroyers retreated; the Indians did not pursue.  They have returned almost all of the prisoners they took on Vesy, who testify to their good treatment.  In some cases, the Indians even ransomed the prisoners from the aliens who took them captive.  The only exceptions, as far as we can determine, are a handful of men who are critically wounded and are currently undergoing treatment.”

“How nice of the Indians,” Uncle Winchester muttered.

Sandra ignored him.  “The Indians have been reported in Boston, but so far they have not made any hostile moves against the planet.  We believe the Indians have no intention of trying to occupy the system as that will add the Americans to their list of enemies.  However ...”

The Prime Minister held up a hand.  “That will do, for the moment,” he said.  He cleared his throat.  “I received the ultimatum from the Indians personally.”

James sucked in his breath.  It was rare, very rare, for Heads of Government to handle diplomatic discussions personally.  There was just too great a risk of a personality clash that would lead to diplomatic rows, or even all-out war.  It was generally better to allow the diplomatic offices to handle such matters at first, knowing that they could be disowned if necessary.  A diplomat could be declared persona non grata and sent home.  It was a great deal harder to ignore a Head of Government.

“It's a strange piece of work,” the Prime Minister continued.  “For an ultimatum, it has some oddly conciliatory phrases.”

“The Indians may themselves be divided,” Neville Murchison said.  The Foreign Secretary leaned forward.  “They may not be as determined on war as it seems.”

“Or that’s what they want you to think,” Uncle Winchester growled.  Murchison and he were old sparring partners.  “What do they actually want?”

The Prime Minister frowned.  “They want recognition as a Great Power,” he said, flatly.  “Their control over both Vesy and Pegasus is to be recognised; they are to be effectively granted possession of those systems and the sectors beyond.  In short, it is a land grab on an interstellar scale.”

He shrugged.  “If we accept those terms without further debate, the Indians will graciously allow us access to Vesy and the tramlines,” he added.  “But we will no longer control any of the systems ourselves.”

“So the Indians expect us to just roll over and surrender those systems,” the First Space Lord said.  “We can't let this pass.”

“No, we can’t,” Uncle Winchester agreed.  “We do have allies.”

“We don’t,” Murchison said, flatly.  “The Great Power system is dead, Henry.  It was killed by the war.  Right now, the Americans are having their election; they won’t risk getting involved unless the Indians do something they can't ignore.  The French have their own internal problems; they’re unlikely to get involved unless we make concessions to them instead.  I rather doubt the Chinese will go to bat for us and the Russians ... well, we believe the Indians have been making inroads with the Russians.”

James winced.  The Russians, during the height of the war, had attempted to deploy biological weapons against the Tadpoles, effectively committing genocide.  Their commandoes had tried to take control of Ark Royal and launch the weapons, injuring James badly in the process.  He cursed inwardly at the thought.  If he hadn't been wounded, he would have been on the Old Lady when she made her final flight.  It would have been better, perhaps, than surviving.

And Admiral Smith would have told you that you were being an idiot, he reminded himself sharply.  You have far too much to live for.

“So we’re alone,” Uncle Winchester said.  “We still have a considerable firepower advantage, don’t we?  Six fleet carriers to three?”

“Three of our carriers are deployed to the border,” the First Space Lord said.  “Concentrating an overwhelming force will take time.”

“We can still take the offensive,” Uncle Winchester said.  

The Prime Minister tapped the table, sharply.  “The question before us is simple,” he said.  “We have a choice between either conceding that the Indians have successfully captured some of our territory or going to war.  Which choice do we make?”

Murchison cleared his throat.  “Prime Minister,” he said.  “I understand the primal urge to just hit back at our enemies.  There is no excuse for invading and occupying our territory, territory claimed by us in line with the various interstellar treaties; the Indians have committed acts of aggression and must be made to pay a price.

“But ... we are not in a good position ourselves.  The Royal Navy was gravely weakened by the war and there are endless demands on our resources.  We could take the offensive against the Indians and beat them, only to discover that we’ve killed ourselves too.  A long war might not only bring in other human powers, Prime Minister; it might weaken us to the point the Tadpoles see a chance to resume the war on their terms.  They have to regard us as a dangerous enemy.

“We have denied the Indians recognition as a Great Power in the past, even though they probably deserved the title.  Conceding that now will do us no harm; it may even serve as a bridge to opening other discussions.  We gain little from Vesy; the system isn't worth fighting to keep.  Let the Indians have it, if they wish.  The only sticking points are Pegasus and Clarke and I believe the Indians can be talked into withdrawing from both systems.  It would be a clear breach of the international order to keep them.”

James had his doubts.  Yes, there was little to gain by keeping Vesy; the natives were primitive, barely crawling out of the Stone Age.  But otherwise ... rewarding the Indians for acts of aggression stuck in his craw.  Maybe they could be talked into withdrawing from Cromwell and Pegasus ...

Uncle Winchester cleared his throat.  “It has always astonished me just how often the diplomats want to talk, talk, talk,” he said.  “In this case, there is nothing to talk about.”

“Jaw-jaw is better than war-war,” Murchison quoted.

“I doubt Churchill would agree with you,” Uncle Winchester said.  “There is literally nothing to talk about.”

He held up a hand before Murchison could say a word.  “There may - may - be some truth in the suggestion we unfairly denied the Indians recognition as a Great Power,” he continued, his voice growing harder.  “It wasn't our call.  The Russians and Chinese were against it; the Americans and French didn't care enough to argue their case.  Perhaps we did treat them badly.  But ... it doesn't serve as an excuse to kill our personnel, occupy our territory and demand - in the cheekiest of tones - that we kindly accept the status quo.

“Did we learn nothing from the Age of Unrest?  Giving in to blackmail only leads to more demands!  How many concessions were made to tin-pot dictators and religious fanatics during the Crazy Years that came back to haunt us when the entire global system hiccupped?  How many of our people died because we tried to make nice with our irredeemable foes, instead of squashing them like bugs while we had the chance?

“So we surrender to the Indians?  Let them get away with it?  Maybe, if we grovel sufficiently, they will kindly allow us to reclaim Pegasus.  And then what?  What happens the next time someone decides they can take a bite out of our territory, in the certain knowledge we’ll just let it go?  We cannot allow the Indians to humiliate us!  It will spell the end of Britain as a Great Power.

“The only acceptable outcome, the only one that maintains our current position, is recovering the territory the Indians occupied by force!  And we must do it alone.  There is literally no other alternative.  The Indians cannot be allowed to get away with this.”

He turned to face the Prime Minister.  “I strongly suggest that we declare war on the Indians and do whatever it takes to recover our territory.”

“India is not a rogue state,” Murchison said, quietly.  “We cannot send in the troops to give her a damn good thrashing.  They may thrash us back.”

“That’s what they thought during the Crazy Years,” Uncle Winchester said.  “They were so scared of getting hurt, even if they could inflict far more harm on their foes, that they allowed threats to grow until they nearly proved lethal.  The death of a single soldier was seen as grounds to surrender and walk away.  And look how badly it cost them!  The Troubles might have been averted if someone had stood up and said enough.”

“India is not a rogue state,” Murchison repeated.  “And if we concentrate the level of force we would need to deal with her, we would leave the border gravely weakened.”

“We may be able to convince the Americans or the French to move additional forces of their own to the border,” the First Space Lord said, quietly.  “They might not be willing to take overt steps to support us, but they’d understand what’s at stake.”

“The longer the Indians remain in possession of our territories, the harder it will be to dislodge them,” the Prime Minister said.

“Then we seize their territories,” Uncle Winchester said.  “They have two Earth-type worlds we could capture.”

“Neither of them is a worthwhile target,” the First Space Lord said.  “The bulk of the Indian shipbuilding industry is in the Sol System.  Off-limits.”

“This is war,” Uncle Winchester said.

“The logic behind the Solar Treaty remains in place,” the Prime Minister said.  “We cannot afford to break it.  Everyone would turn on us.”

James nodded.  Acts of aggression were banned within the Sol System, if only to preserve humanity’s infrastructure and prevent collateral damage.  It was one of the few treaties that every interstellar power honoured.  

Or every human power, he thought, wryly.  The Tadpoles didn't sign the treaty before they attacked Earth.

“Parliament will have to make the final call,” the Prime Minister said, “but I will need to advise them.  If we go to war, and Parliament may well vote for war, can we win?”

“Numerically, we have the advantage,” Uncle Winchester said.

“They may have advantages of their own,” Murchison insisted.  “Most of their ships are post-war designs.”

James felt his eyes narrow.  Someone had been briefing Murchison ...

“We have modern ships too,” Uncle Winchester said.  “The fact remains that we cannot let the Indians get away with this.  If we fail to defend our interests now, when we have advantages, when will we start to stand up for ourselves?”

“And if we win, we win at a terrifying cost,” Murchison snapped.  “We could lose everything in the crossfire.”

The Prime Minister looked at the First Space Lord.  “Admiral Finnegan?”

“We have been looking at our options,” the First Space Lord said.  “Admiral Fitzwilliam’s team has devised a number of potential operational concepts.  With your permission, sir, he will brief you on them.”

“Granted,” the Prime Minister said.

James opened his briefcase, removed a datachip and plugged it into the processor slot beside his seat.  The holographic starchart vanished.  James took the control and opened the files, displaying another starchart.  This one showed potential angles of approach to Pegasus, Vesy and Cromwell.

He took a breath and began.

Chapter Three

10 Downing Street, London, Earth

“Time is not on our side, Prime Minister,” James began, “but it may not be on their side either.  We have to act fast before they can fortify their possessions; they have to secure recognition of their possession before the other interstellar powers bring pressure to bear on them.  Accordingly, we have good reason to seek a quick decision and so do they.”

He paused for effect before proceeding.  “We believe, given the tramlines, that they will have placed the main body of their fleet in Vesy,” he continued.  “That would allow them to determine our approach vector and concentrate their fleet against us.  They would have pickets emplaced to watch for us, as well as human intelligence sources.  They’d have time to redeploy before we arrived in the war zone.  It is unlikely we could avoid a duel with their fleet.

“We have several possible choices.  Variant One - Bulldog One - is to occupy their worlds and trade them for ours, although this would force us to deploy ground units to keep the local population under control.  This might allow us to avoid a major fleet clash, but I regard that as unlikely.  We believe the Indians will attempt to harass our forces on the ground while picking the time and place of a naval engagement.  Besides, in the long term, we would have to make some hard choices concerning the local populations.”

He saw the Prime Minister frown and nodded in agreement.  Terra Nova had been settled by hundreds of ethnic and religious groups, back when no one had known just how many worlds there were for the taking, and it had been a complete disaster.  If Britain kept the Indian worlds, they would either have to remove the settlers or accept a permanent ethnic mishmash, which would probably lead to war.  And one round of the Troubles had been quite bad enough.

“Bulldog Two calls for us to proceed up the tramlines to Vesy,” he said.  “That would probably allow us to dictate the time and place of the battle, as we would be neatly positioned to block any enemy passage between Pegasus, Cromwell and Gandhi.  However, the Indians would have plenty of time to prepare to meet us.  We would also face the problem of fighting for a system we don’t particularly want.”

He tapped a switch, altering the starchart.  “The third and final choice - Bulldog Three - is to proceed directly to Pegasus and force a battle there.  That has a number of advantages; we’d be fighting for territory that is unquestionably ours, we’d be able to insert Special Forces onto the ground and our supply lines would be short.  Well, shorter.  Our logistics aren't going to be very good at the best of times.  The Indians would also have the option of choosing to withdraw, if they didn't want to force a battle themselves.  If they did, we would allow them to leave.”

Murchison frowned.  “Do you think they’ll withdraw?”

“There’s no way to know,” James said.  Diplomacy was outside his sphere of interest.  “They may be running a giant bluff, in which case they’ll back down when it’s called, or they may be serious about keeping what they’ve taken.  In that case, they will certainly have to fight at Pegasus.  They won’t have a choice.”

“I see,” the Prime Minister said.  “Which option do you believe we should take?”

“I would prefer to choose either Bulldog Two or Bulldog Three,” James said.  “In an ideal world, we would proceed up the tramlines to Hannibal” - he tapped a star on the chart - “while deploying fast frigates or cruisers to spy out the terrain.  At that point, the task force would either head to Vesy or Pegasus, depending on the Indian deployments.  Bulldog One offers the least risk, but also the least potential gains.  The Indian industries are effectively off-limits.

“Task Force Bulldog would be built around the Theodore Smith” - he couldn't help a twinge of pain at the ship’s name - “and a hard core of escort carriers, destroyers and frigates.  It would proceed to Hannibal, then advance onwards; ideally, we would attempt to tackle the Indian carriers separately.  Both of their carriers are modern ships, after all; I’d prefer not to risk one of the pre-war carriers against them.  The objective would be to secure Pegasus, land troops, recover the colony and then proceed to either Cromwell or Vesy.  Once Cromwell was recovered, we could seek peace terms from a position of supremacy.”

“We would have nothing to gain from kicking the Indians while they were down,” Murchison commented.

“Except for the certainty they wouldn’t be able to threaten us again,” Uncle Winchester snapped.  “We made damn sure that Iran couldn't do more than bluster during the Age of Unrest.”

“The Indians could lose their colonies,” the Prime Minister said, “but they couldn’t lose their industries in the Sol System.  Not unless we were prepared to throw the Solar Treaty out of the window.  I think we must accept from the beginning that any victory we win will be limited in scope.”

“And we may need their firepower if we end up fighting another war with the Tadpoles,” the First Space Lord added.

And if we take the gloves off here, they’ll do the same, James thought, privately.

The Prime Minister nodded, once.  “How long will it take to gather the ships and assemble the task force?”

“We’ve already ordered the ships to prepare for redeployment,” James said.  “I believe it won’t take longer than a month to ready the entire task force - maybe less, if we aim to deploy to Hannibal within the fortnight.  The real problem will be logistics.  I’d prefer to have our fleet train deployed with the task force, rather than risk having the freighters move in small convoys.  The Indians will understand our weaknesses, Prime Minister, and will try to target the convoys where possible.”

“I was under the impression that tracking a convoy in interstellar space isn't easy,” Murchison said.  “The Tadpoles didn't intercept many convoys, did they?”

“The Indians will have spies watching our bases,” James pointed out.  “The Tadpoles never had that sort of advantage.  They shouldn't have too many problems noting departure times and then it wouldn't be too hard to calculate a rough location.  In the longer term, we will need to pull additional smaller ships away from the border just to provide escorts to the fleet train.”

“I imagine the Admiralty can handle it,” the Prime Minister said.  He looked James in the eye.  “Can we win?”

“Nothing is certain in war, sir,” James said.  “However, I believe we have an excellent chance of whittling them down and defeating them.  I do not believe they are willing to fight to the last.”

“We would just need to weaken them badly,” Uncle Winchester noted.  “Their position is nowhere near as strong as ours.”

“Unless we push them into a corner,” Murchison countered.

“The point is that we cannot allow them to get away with this, as I keep saying,” Uncle Winchester hissed.  “This is not a dispute over who discovered a particular system first, but a schoolyard bully nicking your crisps and then kindly offering to give half of them back!  We cannot compromise beyond allowing the Indians to leave without a fight.  There’s literally nothing to compromise.”

He looked at the Prime Minister.  “I propose telling the Indians to leave now or face the consequences,” he said, flatly.  “And then we assemble the task force and gird ourselves for war.”

“We could always offer to concede their Great Power status if they left now,” Murchison offered.

“That would still allow them to benefit from their crimes,” Uncle Winchester said.

“People will die,” Murchison snapped.  “British spacers will die!”

Uncle Winchester’s face darkened.  “Yes, they will,” he said, finally.  “But how many more will die if we look weak?”

James kept his thoughts to himself.  Privately, he agreed with Uncle Winchester; the Indians couldn't be allowed to benefit from their crimes.  But, at the same time, he knew that war was a gamble.  Victory would be costly and defeat was unthinkable.  If there was a way to convince the Indians to leave, without using force, perhaps it should be taken.  

Except they will start wondering what else they can force out of us, he thought.  And then we’ll be blackmailed again.

“So we ready the task force,” the Prime Minister said.  He glanced at the First Space Lord.  “I believe Parliament will authorise readying for war, if the Indians cannot be convinced to withdraw now.  They’re due to meet in two hours.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” the First Space Lord said.  

“We’ll work out the political objectives afterwards,” the Prime Minister said.  His gaze moved to James.  “I assume you will be commanding the task force?”

“It’s my plan, sir,” James said.  “Besides, Theodore Smith is my flagship.”

The Prime Minister smiled.  “You’ll have orders once Parliament has met,” he said.  “But I dare say we’ll meet again before you go.”

“Yes, sir,” James said.

“I don’t like this,” Murchison said.  “We stand to lose an awful lot.”

“We have no choice,” Uncle Winchester said.  “The Indians have seen to that, Neville.”

The Prime Minister rose to his feet.  “Henry, I imagine you and your nephew have a great deal to talk about,” he said.  “Sandra will show you to one of the private rooms.  You’ll be informed once Parliament has voted.”

“Thank you, Prime Minister,” Uncle Winchester said.

James sighed inwardly as the room emptied.  He’d hoped to have a chance to visit the Cenotaph and the Ark Royal memorial before returning to Nelson Base, but it looked as though Uncle Winchester wanted to talk.  It had probably been decided beforehand, almost certainly with the concurrence of the First Space Lord.  James hadn't been needed to give the briefing, after all.  The First Space Lord had minions to do that sort of thing.

Sandra led them to a small room, poured them both fresh cups of tea and left without a backwards glance.  James watched the door closing behind her, then turned to stare at his uncle.  Uncle Winchester looked tired, worn down by arguing; he hadn't looked so tired, James recalled, back when the Tadpoles had started the war.  No one had really believed in aliens until Vera Cruz ...

“You convinced the Prime Minister, I think,” Uncle Winchester said, without preamble.  “I dare say Parliament will vote for war.”

James nodded.  “They can't let it pass, can they?”

“Probably not,” Uncle Winchester said.  “Yes, there’s a case to be made that we don’t really need to worry about Vesy, but Pegasus and Cromwell are quite important.  Parliament will understand that, I believe.”

He rubbed his forehead.  “When are you going to get married?”

“I haven’t found anyone,” James said, feeling his cheeks heat.  It was an old argument.  “Do we have to have this discussion every time we meet?”

“Yes,” Uncle Winchester said, flatly.  “You need to start raising the next generation of the family.”

“I have Percy and Penny,” James pointed out.

“Neither of whom are blood relations,” Uncle Winchester said.  “You cannot leave your titles to them.”

James met his eyes.  “There was a time when I believed that my birth made me superior to everyone else,” he said.  “I have learned hard lessons since.”

“You were a little brat back then,” Uncle Winchester agreed.  “Locking the maid in the storeroom was particularly unpleasant.  And then there was the time you gorged yourself silly on ...”

“Uncle,” James said.  It wasn't something he wanted to remember.  “Are you ever going to let me forget it?”

“I’ll be telling your grandkids all about it,” Uncle Winchester said.  “And sneering at you when you complain about what awful brats your children are.  You gave your parents quite a hard time.”

He cleared his throat.  “I have a bad feeling about this, James,” he said.  “The order we built after the Troubles is dead.  It died with the war.  Neville, the appeasing toad, is right about that, if nothing else.  Either we fight the Indians, and risk heavy losses that may weaken us permanently, or we surrender and brace for the next round of demands.  The universe isn't what it once was.”

“I know,” James said.  

“We need time,” Uncle Winchester added.  “Time to rebuild the navy, time to incorporate the lessons of the war, time to rebalance the international order.  Hell, maybe even time to make approaches to the Russians again.”

“You know what they tried to do,” James said.

“I also know we may need them in the future,” Uncle Winchester said.  He gave James a sidelong look.  “Should I start looking for potential wives?”

James shook his head, firmly.

“Then start looking for someone yourself,” Uncle Winchester said.  “You’re a war hero, moderately handsome, well-connected ... you shouldn't have any problem finding someone willing to share your life.  Or you can set up an arranged marriage and be ... friendly, if not actual partners.  There’re quite a few marriages where the partners are homosexual and only married to produce children.”

“I’m not homosexual,” James said.

He sighed.  Perhaps it would have been easier if he had been.  No one gave a damn if someone happened to be homosexual, unless they were members of the aristocracy.  Then, they had to produce children, even if it meant entering an arranged - and loveless - marriage with a woman who might have the same tendencies.  But for him?  He wanted someone he actually loved.  And finding someone who loved him, instead of a gold digger, wasn't easy.

Perhaps I should have taken note of Prince Henry, he thought.  The Prince had married for love, then taken himself and his wife to Tadpole Prime, well away from the media.  I could do that, couldn't I?

“Then find someone,” Uncle Winchester said.  “The family needs you to get married, James.”

“I’ll start looking once I return to Earth,” James said, reluctantly.  “I imagine I’ll have time to start a search then, if I must.”

It was a bitter thought.  He was still young, but it was unlikely he’d be promoted further.  Promotion into the Admiralty was based on politics as much as competence and skill; his family, he suspected, already had too much influence in the Royal Navy.  He was marginally surprised he’d been promoted to Vice Admiral, but then he was the senior survivor of Ark Royal.  It made him the greatest living hero of the war.

“I can offer advice, if you like,” Uncle Winchester said.  “You’re not obliged to marry a commoner, you know.  There’re quite a few young maidens in the aristocracy who’d know the score.”

James scowled.  It was tempting, perhaps too tempting.  A young woman from the same social class as himself, someone safe ... and boring.  Sweet, soft-spoken - or good at hiding her true personality from her family.  Pretty too, of course.  The families worked hard to ensure that their children were at the very peak of health.  There would be an understanding right from the start, an understanding that they didn’t love each other ... but that love would bloom, given a chance.  She would manage his estates and raise their children while he tended to his career.  

But she would be boring.  And he disliked boredom.  

“There aren’t many other options,” Uncle Winchester added.  “I do have a list of potential commoners, ones with the ability to fit into the aristocracy, but they wouldn't have the same background.”

“Of course not,” James muttered.  

He shook his head.  The British aristocracy had learned the dangers of inbreeding the hard way.  A commoner with a record of accomplishments - it crossed his mind that Admiral Smith would have qualified - could be invited to marry into the aristocracy, trading their genes for recognition.  No one would look down on them or sneer at their children.  Indeed, commoners who became aristocrats were highly honoured.  It was the only way to keep the bloodlines fresh.

But a commoner wouldn't understand the hidden social rules of the aristocracy ...

“It doesn't matter, not now,” he said, firmly.  “We can discuss it afterwards.”

“Then we will go over your plan,” Uncle Winchester said.  “What do you plan to do if the Indians mass their forces?”

“Go elsewhere,” James said, relieved.  Military issues he understood.  “Trying to defend everywhere is asking for trouble.”

Uncle Winchester nodded, then questioned every detail with a thoroughness James could only admire.  He'd known his uncle had helped design warships before the war, but he hadn't really grasped that Uncle Winchester had a level of tactical acumen too ... something, in hindsight, that should have been blindingly obvious.  And yet, his uncle had never really bragged about his achievements.  He’d certainly never talked about them without being prompted.  

And I asked for war stories, James recalled.  His parents had sent him to Uncle Winchester’s when they’d found the young James too much to handle.  I wasn't interested in the details.

There was a rap at the door, which opened a moment later to reveal Sandra.  “Sirs,” she said, as she closed the door behind her.  “The Prime Minister wishes to inform you that the Houses of Parliament voted for war.”

James let out a breath.  It would be war.

He rose to his feet.  “I’ll need to return to Nelson Base,” he said.  “The task force will have to be assembled.”

“Make sure you give them hell,” Uncle Winchester said.  “I’ll speak to the Prime Minister; you’ll probably have another discussion with us before you depart.”

He held out a hand.  James shook it firmly.  “Good luck, James.”

“Thank you,” James said.  A quick shuttle back to Nelson Base ... he’d alert his staff on the way, get them to start sending out orders to the designated ships.  They’d finalise the plan over the next couple of days, while the task force prepared for war.  “We’re going to need it.”

Chapter Four

Nelson Base, Earth Orbit

“Captain Naiser,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said.  “Thank you for coming.”

Captain John Naiser nodded once as the hatch closed behind him, then took the seat the Admiral indicated.  It had been two weeks since Warspite had returned to Earth for the second time, leading a ragtag convoy of ships escaping Vesy.  He’d spent most of that time sitting in front of various Boards of Inquiry, having every decision he’d made on Vesy dissected ruthlessly.  Too many people had died for the Admiralty to do anything else.

He couldn't help feeling tense.  His crew had been ordered to stay on the ship, save for the handful who’d been answering questions themselves; he’d been told to keep his ship ready for deployment, but he hadn't been ordered to attend any of the briefings or planning sessions he knew to be underway.  War was looming and yet he’d had almost nothing to do, save for answering questions.  If he hadn't been left in command of his ship, he would have wondered if he’d been made the scapegoat for the disaster.  The Indians had organised the uprising, priming the Vesy and turning them against other human factions, but he’d been the officer on the spot.  

But I was left in command, he reassured himself.  They must have another reason to keep me away from the planning sessions.

“There isn't much time, so I’ll be blunt,” Fitzwilliam said.  His voice was clipped, held under firm control.  “As you know, Parliament voted yesterday for war.  Task Force Bulldog - under my command - has been charged with recovering Cromwell and Pegasus and driving the Indians back to their own worlds.  Your ship has been attached to Task Force Bulldog.”

“Yes, sir,” John said.  Independent command of a small flotilla had been nice, but he was too junior to hold it indefinitely.  “Warspite is ready to go to war.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Fitzwilliam said.  He leaned forward, meeting John’s eyes.  “I’m placing you and your ship on detached duty, Captain.  I have a mission I want you to perform.”

John lifted his eyebrows.  “A mission?”

“On the record, Warspite will be assigned to Britannia,” Fitzwilliam said.  John felt a flicker of disappointment he ruthlessly suppressed.  “There is a demand for small ships to provide additional security and Warspite would be perfect for the role.  However, your actual orders - which will be sealed; you can open them once you enter the Terra Nova System - are to make a recon flight through the occupied systems.  I need a full tactical survey to help plan our offensive operations.”

“Yes, sir,” John said.  He felt a surge of brilliant excitement.  A challenging mission against a deadly foe?  It was what he’d signed up for.  And he had a score to settle against the Indians.  “You want us to find their carriers?”

“I doubt their dispositions will remain permanent,” Fitzwilliam said.  “They will almost certainly reposition their ships once they know where we’re coming from.”

He keyed a switch, activating the starchart.  “Our best guess is that they will place at least one of their carriers in Pegasus and another in Vesy - assuming, of course, they’re prepared to risk both of their carriers in the war.  They may well have plans to cut their losses if we’re ready to put up a fight.”

He shrugged.  “You are to start with Pegasus.  First, I want a tactical sweep of the system; second, I want you to land a small commando team on Clarke III.  We need up-to-date information on what the Indians are doing on the surface.  So far, our analysts have concluded it could be anything from setting up defences to merely holding the moon in a very light grip.”

“Because they can't hold Clarke III if we came knocking,” John said.

“We don’t know,” Fitzwilliam said.  “A SAS team - probably including a handful of Royal Marines - will be attached to Warspite just prior to your departure.  They’ll have a stealth shuttle for planetary insertion; you’ll get them to the system, but they’ll handle getting down to the surface themselves.”

“We inserted the marines on Vesy,” John said, quietly.

“There’s more at stake here,” Fitzwilliam warned.  “You’ll make sure you have a solid communications link with the troopers before heading through the tramlines to Vesy and Cromwell.  Ideally, we want to set up stealthed platforms in the region, but that depends on local conditions.  There’s too much dust orbiting that damn gas giant.”

“Yes, sir,” John said.  “Do you want to try to insert teams on Vesy and Cromwell?”

“I don’t think so,” Fitzwilliam said.  “The diplomats” - his face twisted into a sneer - “believe that the Indians will probably concede Cromwell without too much of a fight.  Cromwell is an Earth-type world, Captain, and our claim to possession is strong.  They’d set a very distressing precedent if they chose to keep it.”

John nodded.  It had long been agreed, after Terra Nova had collapsed into civil war, that whoever settled a system’s Earth-type world had unquestioned title to the remainder of the system.  The Indians might be able to get their hands on Pegasus, if the Royal Navy failed to evict them, but the other interstellar powers would resist allowing them to keep Cromwell.  It would definitely upset a number of apple carts.

“In any case, there’s no point in trying to determine what’s happening on Vesy,” Fitzwilliam added, after a moment.  “I think the general feeling on Earth is to pull back and let the Vesy come to terms with the cultural shock themselves.”

“I agree, sir,” John said.  “The Vesy have been too badly traumatised by their first contact.”

“So were we,” Fitzwilliam pointed out.

“The Tadpoles were on the same level as us,” John said.  “I don’t think the Vesy knew how to make gunpowder, let alone develop the scientific method, before the Russians stumbled across their world.  They had no concept of space travel.  We must have seemed like gods.”

“That’s a matter for a later date, if we win the war,” Fitzwilliam said.  “Ideally, Captain, we should have the task force at Hannibal by the time you return.  You will rendezvous with us there.  If we’re not present, you will head back to Earth; hopefully, you will encounter us en route.”

John nodded.  Only an idiot - or a politician - expected starships to run on time.  Something could easily go wrong, delaying them; the Indians could be expected to do whatever it took to delay the task force as much as possible.  They’d have to be keeping an eye on Terra Nova too, he suspected.  Warspite would have to enter stealth mode as soon as she entered the system and alter course to the tramline that would eventually take her to Pegasus.

“I may have another mission for you, once the first one is completed,” Fitzwilliam added, after a moment.  “However, your principle task is to serve as a scout.”

“Yes, sir,” John said.  He couldn't help looking forward to the deployment.  “Warspite was built for such missions.”

“Good,” Fitzwilliam said.  “Under the circumstances, you will have first claim on anything you need from the stores.  If any supply officers dare to complain, point them in my direction.”

“Yes, sir,” John said.  He’d fought enough battles with supply officers to be glad of the chance to force them to check with an Admiral.  They’d rapidly change their minds about objecting the moment they realised he wasn't joking.  “I believe we don’t need much, save for the SAS gear and other war stocks.”

“Make sure you take all you can,” Fitzwilliam warned.  “You may not be able to return to Earth before the task force enters the war zone.”

He smiled, rather thinly.  “Is there anything else your crew needs?”

“They could probably do with some leave,” John said.  “It was a long deployment and there wasn’t any real chance to stretch their legs and blow off some steam.  But I don’t think there’s time.”

“You can send a handful of crewmen to Island One, if you think you can afford to spare them for a couple of hours,” Fitzwilliam said.  “I want you on your way as soon as possible, Captain; handle it how you see fit, but don’t delay your departure.”

John smiled.  Island One was tame, compared to Portsmouth, Southampton or Sin City, but it would give some of his crew a chance to relax for a few hours.  He’d have to go through the duty roster with Commander Howard, his XO, and determine just who could be spared before departure.  It was a pity he probably couldn't clear himself for a few hours of leave, but it would be an abuse of authority.  Besides, there was just too much to do.

“Thank you, sir,” he said.

“There is a price, of course,” Fitzwilliam said.  “You’ll be carrying a couple of reporters with you.”

“Oh,” John said.  He cleared his throat.  “Sir, with all due respect, I thought this was to be a secret mission.”

“The reporters will be informed, in no uncertain terms, that they are not to file any stories without permission from the Public Relations officers,” Fitzwilliam said.  “During your mission, Captain, they will be doing nothing more than recording and witnessing the deployment.  They won’t be allowed to send messages off the ship until the task force enters the Hannibal System.”

John scowled.  “We can keep them from sending messages, Admiral, but it will still be a security risk.”

“The Prime Minister is very determined to make sure the war is presented in the best possible light,” Fitzwilliam said, firmly.  “You, at least, will only have one or two reporters.  I will have a whole press corps on Theodore Smith.  They’ll all have signed the standard non-disclosure agreement and their stories will be checked prior to distribution.  I understand your doubts, Captain, but we have our orders.  We need to keep the press on our side.”

John kept his face blank.  With friends like those, who needs the Indians?

“The looming war has already started to dominate the newsfeeds,” Fitzwilliam added.  “Our press corps, at least, is being reasonably responsible, but foreign media sources are going crazy.  We need to make sure we get our story out before the Indians have a chance to influence public opinion.  They’re already saying this is a war of choice.”

“It isn't, sir,” John said.

“Tell that to the reporters,” Fitzwilliam said.  He shrugged.  “In any case, Captain, if they cause trouble you have authorisation to stick them in the brig until the war is finished.  I believe that will be made clear to them too.”

“Thank you, sir,” John said.  

“The reporters we had on Ark Royal were pretty damn bad too,” Fitzwilliam added, with a thin smile.  “I know precisely how you feel.”

He reached into a drawer and removed a datachip.  “These are your sealed orders, Captain,” he added.  “You’ll receive the standard orders through the datanet; you will, of course, ignore them once you reach Terra Nova and open the sealed orders.”

“Yes, sir,” John said.

“I don’t expect you to engage the enemy,” Fitzwilliam said, as he rose to his feet.  “Ideally, you should pass completely unnoticed.  We don’t want the Indians to know you’re there, Captain; I’d like to have a few surprises to point at them.  Don’t go looking for a fight.”

His expression hardened.  “However ... if you are forced into an engagement and you can’t avoid it, I expect you to give them hell.  Beat the living daylights out of them.”

“Of course, sir,” John said.

“Good luck,” Fitzwilliam said.  “Do you have any questions?”

“No, sir,” John said.  He rose and saluted.  “Thank you.”

“Thank me when you come back,” Fitzwilliam said.  “Not before.”

John nodded and strode out of the hatch, down towards the docks.  Nelson Base seemed to have come alive overnight; hundreds of officers and crewmen were transporting supplies from the stocks to the starships docked at the giant station.  He pushed himself against the bulkhead as a pair of carts rumbled passed, pushed along by a pair of burly Royal Marines who had been pressed into service.  Behind them, a couple of commanding officers strode past, probably heading for one of the innumerable briefings.  

At least that explains why I wasn't invited, John thought.  The Admiral wouldn't want me to know too much if he was sending me into enemy territory.

“Captain,” a voice called.  “How are you?”

John turned and smiled as he saw Commander Juliet Watson.  She looked more confident than he remembered - but now, at least, she wasn't trying to serve as an XO.  He couldn't help feeling pleased to see her again, even if she’d been an unintentional nuisance on his first deployment.

“I’m fine,” he said.  It would be nice to sit and have a drink with her, but he doubted he had the time.  “I’ve just got to return to my ship.”

“I was hoping Mike would be free this evening,” Juliet said.  “I’ve got a great deal to show him.”

John concealed his amusement with an effort.  Mike Johnston, Warspite’s Chief Engineer, had a thing for Juliet, even when she’d been XO.  It had probably worked in her favour - crewmen who would have ignored her wouldn't have dared trifle with the Chief Engineer - but it was skirting the boundaries of regulations.  Now, after she’d been reassigned to Nelson Base, they’d seen each other fairly frequently.  John was mildly surprised he hadn't heard of their engagement by now.

“I’ll see if I can spare him,” he said.  It was hard to say no to Juliet.  “But I can't make any promises.”

He nodded to her and headed down towards the airlock.  A pair of marines was standing on guard outside the ship, watching carefully while four crewmen carefully moved a truckload of supplies into Warspite.  They saluted John as he approached; he saluted them back, then waited for them to confirm his identity before stepping through the airlock.  It wasn't likely the Indians had spies trying to creep onto the ship, yet the possibility couldn't be discounted completely.  The Great Powers might have agreed not to wage war on one another, at least before the Tadpoles had shown themselves, but there had been no shortage of attempts to penetrate security systems and steal intelligence and technological data.  

And the Indians might have spies of their own, he thought.  No, they will have spies of their own, watching and waiting to see what we do.

It wasn't a cheerful thought.  The Royal Navy needed to trust its personnel, not start a witch-hunt for Indian spies.  Hell, quite a few crewmen were of Indian descent, although most ties to motherlands had been cut during the Troubles.  Who knew what would happen if they were specifically targeted by the counter-intelligence staff?  The paranoia might do more damage than Indian weapons.

He keyed his wristcom as he entered his ready room.  “Commander Howard, report to my ready room as soon as possible.”

“Aye, Captain,” Howard said.  “I’m on my way.”

John sat down behind his desk and opened his terminal.  The official set of orders was already waiting for him; he skimmed them briefly, then placed the sealed orders in his secure drawer.  They’d remain there until they reached Terra Nova, where he’d need to show them to the XO.  Howard would probably guess their existence once the SAS troopers came onboard - there was no need to transport the SAS to Britannia - but until then the sealed orders had to remain a secret.  It wasn’t particularly clever - John trusted his XO completely - yet there was no choice.  The more people who knew, the greater the chance of an accidental leak.

The hatch opened.  “Captain,” Howard said.

“Take a seat,” John ordered.  He glanced through the list of messages and frowned.  The SAS would be arriving an hour before the planned departure time, something that bothered him more than he cared to admit.  A handful of troopers wouldn’t pose a problem, but their shuttlecraft would have to be stowed away somewhere safe.  “We’re departing for Britannia in two days.”

Howard raised his eyebrows.  “Britannia?”

“We will also be transporting an SAS detachment - probably one or two troops, around sixteen men apiece,” John added.  He’d let Howard draw his own conclusions.  “They’ll have at least one shuttlecraft with them - a non-standard design.  They want her to remain secure.”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said.  “We could plug her to the hull and cover her in camo fabric.  She’d remain completely out of sight.”

“Good idea,” John said.  “Make the arrangements; verify the straps yourself, rather than asking anyone else to handle it.  Officially, we’re taking on additional marines rather than anything more ... interesting.”

“Of course, sir,” Howard said.

John smiled.  “We also have permission to take what we need from the stores, so put in requests for everything,” he added.  “Just make sure we have enough room to get through the corridors in case of emergency.”

“I was on Courageous, sir,” Howard said.  “I remember.”

“Me too,” John said.  He’d served on Canopus ... and the escort carrier had been so crammed with supplies that making one’s way through the ship had been difficult.  And, in the end, it hadn't been enough to save her when the Tadpoles came knocking.  “We’ll need everything we can get.”

He took a breath.  “We also have permission to offer shore leave to deserving crewmen,” he added.  “They’re authorised to visit Island One for a couple of hours at a time.  Put together parties of suitable candidates and remind them that anyone who fails to report back will be listed as a deserter.  We can’t afford to delay our departure.”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said.

“And tell the Chief Engineer that he has an hour’s leave tonight, if he wants to use it,” John added, after a moment.  “I think we can spare him that long.”

“Of course, sir,” Howard said.

“I’ll deal with the paperwork now,” John concluded.  He’d be surprised if Howard didn't have a good idea of where they were going, but it wouldn't matter as long as he kept his mouth shut until departure.  “Let me know if there are any problems.”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said.

John smiled to himself as his XO left the compartment.  There was no shortage of paperwork, but he couldn't help a thrill of excitement.  After so much, after so many defeats, it felt good to be going back to war.  This time, it was going to be different.  No civilians, no diplomats, no aliens ... just a mission and a chance to test themselves against a peer power.  It would be very different.

This time, he thought, we’re ready for war.

Chapter Five

SAS Headquarters, Hereford, Earth

“Welcome to hell, Lieutenant.”

Lieutenant Percy Schneider sucked in his breath as he was escorted through the heavily-guarded gate and into one of the most secretive military bases in Britain.  It looked, on the surface, to be quite similar to a number of other bases he’d visited, but he couldn't help a thrill of excitement.  Hereford was the home base of the Special Air Service, the toughest Special Forces unit in the world.  Every serving soldier - at least, every front-line soldier - hoped to become an SAS trooper or serve in one of the other SF units.  Percy had hoped, one day, to try out for the Special Boat Service, but he’d never expected to visit Hereford until then.  The base was rarely open to visitors.

“Take a long look,” his escort advised dryly.  “There’s nothing really to see here.”

Percy nodded in agreement.  The important parts of the base would be behind a second line of fencing or deep underground, well away from prying eyes.  He might have been asked - ordered - to visit, but he wouldn’t see anything above his pay grade.  There weren't even any troopers in view, although the driver - when he’d been picked up from the railway station - had told him that they spent most of their time training when they weren't actually on active duty.  They wouldn't show off for him.

He sighed inwardly, then followed his escort through a set of doors and into a barracks that looked remarkably similar to the barracks in Edinburgh.  The only real difference was a long line of framed newspaper cuttings hanging from the walls, each one talking about the SAS or another SF unit.  He paused long enough to read one dating all the way back to the famed Iranian Embassy Siege before his escort coughed impatiently and led him onwards.  There wasn't anyone else in view until they entered the antechamber, but he could feel unseen eyes watching him.  The base was carefully monitored in case of trouble.

“Captain Drake will see you now,” the escort said, nodding to a door.  “Good luck, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you,” Percy said.

He braced himself and stepped through the door.  His orders had been clear - he was to make his way to Hereford and report to Captain Drake - but they hadn't told him why.  He didn't think he was in trouble - he hadn't been in command of the base on Vesy when the final battle had begun - yet it was still odd.  It wasn't as if he’d thrown his cap in the ring and applied for SAS Selection.  Offhand, he couldn't recall anyone ever being invited to Hereford merely to speak to one of the SAS officers.

“Lieutenant Schneider,” Captain Christopher Drake said.  His voice was oddly unaccented, but Percy thought he could detect traces of Lancashire.  “We don’t stand on ceremony here, so please take a seat.”

Percy obeyed, studying Drake carefully as he sat down.  He was a tall man, wiry rather than muscular; his eyes were warm, but sharp.  The uniform he wore was completely unmarked, save for a single rank badge; he carried a pistol at his belt, the flap open so he could draw it in a second.  Percy puzzled over it for a long moment, then recalled the number of terrorist threats against military bases during the Age of Unrest.  The bombardment of Earth during the war had unleashed a whole new wave of terrorism.

“I apologise for summoning you here at such short notice,” Drake said.  “Do you know why you are here?”

“Vesy,” Percy guessed.

“Not quite,” Drake said.  “Pegasus.  Specifically, Clarke III.”

Percy nodded slowly.  He’d been on the surface while Warspite had been supporting the colony effort, practicing military deployments in utterly alien - and completely inhospitable - terrain.  Clarke might have been fun, if the atmosphere hadn’t been poisonous; they’d joked, at the time, about setting up ski resorts and charging admission.  But now, of course, the Indians were in possession of the gas giant’s moon.  They’d have to be evicted before the colony could resume normal development.

“I read your file,” Drake said.  “It was quite an interesting read.  You joined the marines four years ago; you were assigned to Warspite as a Corporal one year ago and took part in the liberation of Vesy from the Russians.  Captain Naiser left you behind, in command of Fort Knight; you served as a combination of outpost commander and diplomat until you were relieved.  Quite an achievement for one so young.”

“Thank you, sir,” Percy said.

“You were promoted to Lieutenant and placed in command of the QRF,” Drake continued, calmly.  “You were on the spot during the troubles on Vesy - eventually, you helped defend Fort Knight long enough to get the civilians off-world before it was too late.   And you’ve been nominated for a couple of medals ...”

Percy frowned, inwardly.  He’d tried to look up Drake’s record on MILNET, only to discover that anything beyond a bare acknowledgement of Drake’s existence - a standard precaution against walts - was classified well above his security clearance.  But someone who held the rank of Captain in the SAS couldn't be dismissed.  He’d have more practical experience on active duty than just about anyone Percy knew, save - perhaps - for Sergeant Peerce.  It was unlikely - very unlikely - that Drake was genuinely impressed by Percy’s record.  He’d have to wonder if Percy had been promoted too far, too fast.

“I shall be blunt,” Drake said.  “You’ve been detached to my troop, Percy.  I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”

“Yes, sir,” Percy said, automatically.

“We’re going to be deploying to Clarke,” Drake explained.  “It won’t be the first planetary insertion we’ve done, Percy, but none of us have actually visited Clarke itself.  You’re one of the few people we can tap for support.  Your CO already approved the transfer before you came here.”

Percy had to smile.  “Does this make me a trooper?”

“Not until you pass Selection,” Drake said.  He smiled, openly.  “But you will be fast-tracked through Selection when you get home.”

If I get home, Percy thought.  

The thought sent chills down his spine.  He’d heard stories of SAS deployments, including a number of stories that couldn't possibly have been turned into movies.  No one would believe that such operations had ever taken place.  Slipping undetected through a planet’s atmosphere was sanity itself compared to some of the crazier stories he’d been told.  He looked at Drake and wondered, suddenly, just how many of them were true.  Drake didn't look to be the sort of person who ever gave up.

“You’re better placed than some of the people we’ve had to take along,” Drake said.  “You actually went through training, which is more than can be said for some of the intelligence officers.  I assume you know how to fire a gun?”

“Yes, sir,” Percy said, stiffly.  He knew it sounded as though he was being teased, but it was a very silly question.  “I came first in my class of shooters.”

Drake smiled.  “You’ll find we’re held to even greater standards,” he said.  “We’ll be testing you out on everything from pistols to sniper rifles.  Did you have any problems operating on Clarke?”

“Our weapons and equipment had to be cold-proofed,” Percy said.  “They were designed for unpleasant environments.”

“Always good to check,” Drake said.

Percy couldn't disagree.  There had been cases where weapons had worked perfectly in the laboratory, or out on the training fields, and then jammed up on active service.  The oil had dried, or frozen solid ... it had cost lives, in the past.  He’d been warned to be careful when he’d been deployed to Warspite; their equipment was rated for all environments, but it was well to be sure.  Their weapons could not be allowed to fail when they were advancing on an enemy position.

“I won’t lie to you,” Drake said.  “This will be the hardest thing you’ve ever done.  If it was completely up to me, you’d have weeks to prepare yourself for insertion, but we don’t have weeks.  You’ll have a day with us now and then we’re transferring to Warspite.”

Percy brightened.  “Yes, sir.”

“You’ll be in lockdown, though,” Drake added.  “If you want to write letters or emails, you’ll have to send them through me.  I would advise you not to send anything too explicit, but I could do with a laugh.”

“I’ll try to be blatant,” Percy said, dryly.  “Or would you like me to download a romance novel and copy the interesting parts into an email?”

Drake laughed.  “As long as it’s an interesting romance novel.”

Percy snorted.  He’d always detested the thought of someone reading his private mail, but military security came first.  That had been made very clear during his first deployment.  The censors didn't really mind if a squaddie spent hours writing a letter to his girlfriend that detailed precisely what he intended to do with her when he got home, but they’d be furious if he accidentally revealed operational details.  It would lead to an unpleasant interview with the soldier’s CO and perhaps an immediate flight home.

“I’ll pick something very amusing,” he said.  Penny had given him a copy of one book featuring a Royal Marine for a joke and he’d been left with the impression that the writer had never set eyes on a soldier.  But it had been funny, in a morbid kind of way.  “Or maybe not write anything at all.”

“Good,” Drake said.  “Once the ship is underway, you can meet your friends if you wish, provided you keep up with the training.  I suggest, however, that you concentrate on working with us.  We’re going to need to rely on you once we hit the surface.”

“Yes, sir,” Percy said.

Drake rose.  “For the moment, you’re attached to B Squadron, 5 (Space )Troop,” he said, as he led the way towards the door.  “You won’t be a Lieutenant, I’m afraid.  I hope that won’t be a problem?”

“No, sir,” Percy said.  He didn't hold any rank in the SAS.  It was unlikely he’d be called upon to take command, or do anything other than share his expertise and serve as a footsoldier.  Hell, if he did have to take command, there would be no one left to follow his orders.  “I understand.”

“That’s a relief,” Drake said.  He didn't bother to look back as he headed down the corridor.  “Every so often, we get someone who wants to cling to his old rank.”

Percy wasn't really surprised.  It hadn't been easy to get promotion - and he’d been lucky.  He would have had to give up his rank if he applied to join the SAS, but officers attached to the SAS - willingly or unwillingly - might not be so keen to surrender something they’d worked to achieve.  And yet, he was fairly sure he'd be allowed to keep his rank once he returned to his original unit.

He heard the sound of gunfire as they passed through a set of heavy metal doors and walked down a long staircase.  The sound of shooting was growing louder; they stopped outside a second set of doors and donned ear protection before opening the doors.  Inside, there was a shooting range, with a dozen men in black uniforms systematically firing their weapons towards a series of holographic targets.  Four more men were kneeling on the floor, dismantling and reassembling their weapons; it looked very much as though the troopers were test-firing everything they had before boarding the shuttle for Warspite.

Drake put his fingers in his mouth and whistled, loudly.  Percy watched with interest as the troopers turned to face their commander.  They had nothing to prove, he noted; they weren't showing off their weapons or thrusting forward, trying to dominate the surroundings.  There was something about the way they moved, an easy confidence in themselves, that was more impressive than any shouting or screaming.

They’ve already been through hell, he thought.  He’d looked up SAS Selection when he'd completed the Commando Training Course and he’d been impressed.  And then they went out and did the impossible.

“This is Percy Schneider,” Drake said, without preamble.  “He visited Clarke III last year, which makes him the closest thing to an expert we have.  He’s a Royal Marine with genuine experience, so don’t expect him to ask which end of a rifle fires the bullets.  Sergeant?”

A tall man stepped forward.  “Captain?”

“Check Percy out on our equipment - everything from environmental suits to weapons and communications gear,” Drake said.  “We’ll be leaving tomorrow morning; I want him ready to go by then.”

“Yes, sir,” the Sergeant said.

Percy braced himself as the Sergeant studied him, forcing himself to meet the Sergeant’s eyes.  Platoon Sergeant Danny Peerce had mentored him, first on Warspite and then on Vesy, but this Sergeant looked a great deal nastier.  He’d have to worry about Percy’s qualifications, no matter what the files said.  Percy hadn't gone through Selection and so there would be a question mark over his abilities.

“I am Sergeant Dale Lewis,” the Sergeant said.  “You've seen active service, right?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Percy said.  

“Then you will have no trouble with our training,” Lewis said, with an evil smile.  “Let’s go.”

The next few hours proved to be hellish.  Percy knew he was in pretty good shape - he'd kept up with his training on Vesy - but running around after Sergeant Lewis felt like going all the way back to the Potential Royal Marines Course and starting again.  Many of the weapons he was shown - and forced to fire time and time again until the sergeant was satisfied - were familiar, yet some were clearly unique to the SAS.  It was lucky, he decided, as they moved to survival gear, that he’d had time on Clarke and Vesy.  He had enough experience in using hardsuits to please even Sergeant Lewis.

“There isn't time to fit you out with booster implants,” Lewis said, as he led the way into the medical bay.  A grim-faced doctor was standing there, holding a datapad in one hand and a pocket scanner in the other.  “You may be at a disadvantage if you have to run after us.”

Percy nodded, curtly.  “I’ll try and serve as the rearguard then,” he said.  He’d heard that the SAS had booster implants - as well as implanted weapons and communications devices - but details had been sparse.  However, if they were anything like the civilian models used by spacers, it would take weeks to learn how to use the implants.  “How do your implants work?”

“That’s classified information,” Lewis growled.  “Pass Selection and you’ll find out.”

The Sergeant didn't let up.  As soon as the doctor had pronounced Percy physically healthy, he’d led Percy into a sparring room and tested him, ruthlessly.  Percy had been trained in hand-to-hand combat, but the Sergeant was astonishingly fast and terrifyingly strong.  It was a surprise, when the sparring came to an end, when the Sergeant reluctantly cleared Percy to accompany the troop and led him to meet the rest of the troopers.

Or maybe it shouldn’t have been, Percy thought, feeling his body aching.  If Drake wasn't joking about officers who didn't know how to fire a gun ...

“We operate on a first-name basis here,” Lewis explained.  The SAS common room didn't look that different to the one he recalled from Edinburgh, although it was cleaner than anything civilian.  “And we have zero tolerance for bullshit.”

“Quite right,” a trooper said.  He stuck out a hand for Percy to shake.  “I’m Jimmy.  I read your file.  What was it like on Vesy?”

Percy hesitated.  “Tricky,” he said, finally.  “Hot, sticky and remorselessly political.”

Jimmy laughed and slapped Percy’s shoulder.  “Sounds like fun,” he said.  “And Clarke?”

“Cold, icy and deadly,” Percy said.  “You wouldn’t last a minute without protective gear.”

“But at least it’s a free-fire zone,” Jimmy said.  “There won’t be any aliens or civilians to get in the way when we engage the Indians.”

He waved Percy to a seat and passed him a can of Panda Cola.  “Tell us about it.”

Percy nodded and started to talk.  The troopers listened intently, without the jokes he would have expected from a rival branch of the military.  But then, the troopers didn't have anything to prove; hell, some of them might have been drawn from the Royal Marines or had friends who’d served on Vesy too.  They didn’t need to engage in horseplay to prove themselves.

“If you want to update your will, make sure you do it now,” Lewis said, an hour later.  He’d listened quietly, sometimes asking questions to parse out more of the story.  “Or check your email - remember, anything you send will be held in the buffers until someone’s had a chance to take a look at it.  This is pretty much the only piece of downtime you’ll get, so enjoy it.”

“Aw, Sergeant,” Jimmy said.  “We were hoping to take him to the pub.”

Lewis lifted his eyebrows.  “Would you care to explain to the Captain while you’re all rolling drunk or puking during the shuttle flight?”

“Um ... no, Sergeant,” Jimmy said.

“Right answer,” Lewis said.  “You’re in lockdown anyway, so behave yourselves.  Percy, you have a bunk with the lads.  Don’t worry about standing guard tonight - you’ll do enough of that on the ship.”

Percy nodded.  He’d have to email Canella before departure - and Penny.  She'd made it back to Earth - the Indians had returned her without delay - but he hadn't had a chance to talk to her.  God alone knew what she was planning to do, apart from writing the full story of the disaster on Vesy.  It might make interesting reading.

And I’d better hope no one here learns she’s my sister, he thought, as he headed for the nearest terminal.  The media is the enemy of secrecy and security.  

Chapter Six

HMS Warspite, Earth Orbit

“They do feel the urge to be melodramatic, don’t they?”

Penny Schneider had to fight down the urge to roll her eyes.  It had been an hour since they’d boarded the shuttle and set off for an undisclosed destination and Darrel Stevenson had spent most of the time complaining about it.  If he hadn't wanted to agree to the terms and conditions for being embedded with the military, she asked herself, why had he signed up in the first place?  She, at least, had known what she was getting into when she’d signed on the dotted line.  There might be a number of irksome security regulations - and the promise of a hefty jail term if she deliberately broke them - but there was also the prospect of a scoop.  It was something she needed desperately to boost her career.

Because my stories weren’t unique when I was returned to Earth, she thought, sourly.  The Indians had held her prisoner just long enough to devalue her experiences and allow other reporters - who’d escaped with the Royal Navy - to undercut her.  I need something new as soon as possible.

She ran a hand through her long blonde hair as the shuttle rocked one final time.  The gravity field shimmied, suggesting that they’d docked with a starship.  She couldn't help a flicker of fear despite the anticipation, fighting the urge to request - demand - that she be taken back home.  It wouldn't be the first time she’d travelled on a military ship, but it wouldn't be the same.  This time, they were going to war.

I could die here, she told herself.  She'd faced death before - on Earth, during the war - but this was different.  Someone might blow the ship to atoms and take me with it.

The hatch opened.  She rose to her feet and picked up her carryall, walking through the hatch and into a small airlock.  The logo on the inner hatch was familiar, very familiar.  She had to choke off a laugh as she realised she’d been assigned - again - to Warspite.  Was Percy back onboard?   He’d been on Vesy, the last time they’d met, but Fort Knight was no longer in existence.  She knew he'd survived - she’d checked the records as soon as she’d been returned to Earth - but she hadn't been able to organise a meeting.  Her sources had told her, in confidence, that everyone who’d had anything to do with the disaster were being interrogated by various Boards of Inquiry to find out just what had happened.  She could only pray that Percy hadn't been singled out as the scapegoat.

She smiled, despite her fears, as the inner hatch opened to reveal Commander Howard.  She’d met him during the first trip to Vesy - as XO, he'd been responsible for supervising the reporters as well as his regular duties - and she rather liked him, although she knew he’d been careful what he’d shown her.  She didn't fault him for that, but it was rather annoying.  Naval personnel tended to stay firmly on-message whenever they thought they were being monitored by their superiors.  

“Commander,” she said.  “What a surprise to see you again.”

“There was a need for secrecy,” Howard said.  He looked past her.  “Mr. Stevenson.  Welcome onboard Warspite.”

“Thank you,” Stevenson said.  “Was it really necessary to hide the destination from us?”

“I’m afraid so,” Howard said.  “I assume you paid close attention to your briefing?”

“Of course,” Stevenson said, irked.   “It was very interesting.”

“Operational details have to remain a secret, for the moment,” Howard said.  He turned, motioning them to follow him.  “I know it's a burden, but we cannot afford to take risks.”

He said nothing else until they reached their suite.  It was larger than Penny had expected - one small living compartment and a single bedroom - but she had the very definite impression that Stevenson was disappointed.  She dropped her bag on the sofa, checked inside the bedroom and smiled to herself.  The compartment was much bigger than the quarters she’d used last time she’d been on the ship.

“You’ll have the bedroom, we assume,” Howard said.  “Mr. Stevenson will have the sofa.  The head” - he jabbed a finger towards the bathroom - “is shared.  I’m afraid there isn't anyone assigned to keep the room tidy, so you’ll have to handle it yourselves.  The door will need to be keyed to your fingerprints if you want to keep everyone else out; you’ll be able to handle that through the room’s terminal, over there.”

Penny followed his pointing finger and nodded.  “When will we depart?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Howard informed her.  “As we’re moving vast amounts of supplies through the ship, the two of you are to remain in your compartment for the moment.  You will be escorted to the mess when dinner is ready; until then, there’s a small stockpile of food and drink in the fridge.”

“It’s a tiny fridge,” Stevenson complained.

“I assure you that this is the second-largest cabin on the ship,” Howard said.  “This isn't exactly a fancy hotel.”

Stevenson looked disbelieving, but Penny nodded in understanding.  She’d seen the junior enlisted quarters during her first cruise and they were tiny.  There was nowhere near enough room to swing a cat and privacy was a joke.  She’d endured the refugee camps on Earth, but she honestly doubted she could have tolerated such close quarters for very long.  If the crewmen had fallen out or started fights, it would have been intolerable.

“We understand,” she said.  “It was in the briefing notes.”

Howard smiled, very briefly.  “You can compose or record messages, if you like, but they will be held in the buffer until a censor can inspect them or we return to Sol,” he reminded her.  “And I’ll see you tonight, for dinner.”

“Thank you,” Penny said.

She watched Howard go, the hatch hissing closed behind him.  “Well,” she said.  “All we can do now is wait.”

“I suppose,” Stevenson said.  He bent down to inspect the sofa carefully.  “How do you think you turn it into a bed?”

Penny examined it for a moment.  “I don’t think you do,” she said.  The sofa wasn't very big - Stevenson was in for a few uncomfortable nights - but it was better than sleeping on the deck.  “You’ll probably find blankets in the drawers underneath.”

Stevenson sighed.  “The things I do ...”

“Just go embed yourself with the troops,” Penny said.  Her mentor during her first year as a reporter had been an embed, someone who’d lived and worked with a military unit while being a reporter.  His stories had always been hair-raising.  “You’ll be sleeping in mud, eating dung for dinner and dodging fire from people who are trying to kill you.”

“Reporters shouldn't be killed,” Stevenson objected.

Penny snorted, rudely, as she picked up her carryall.  Reporters were targeted; sometimes, they looked like soldiers, if seen from a distance.  Or they were targeted because the insurgents saw them as the enemy, the men and women who encouraged the British population to support punitive strikes against rogue states and terrorist groups.

And if this ship gets destroyed, she thought, we'll be blown to atoms, without the enemy ever knowing who they killed.

She pushed the thought aside as she stepped into the tiny sleeping compartment and opened her carryall, dumping her clothes into the drawer beneath the bed.  She’d been told not to bring any more than the bare essentials, something that bothered her more than she cared to admit.  A suitcase of clothes wouldn't be that bad, would it?  But her editor had made it clear that he expected her to abide by the military’s rules.  There was no profit - and no scoop - to be had if she spent the trip in the brig, being fed bread, water and ration bars.

“You’ve been on this ship before,” Stevenson called.  “What do you do when you’re bored?”

“There’s a games compartment,” Penny said.  “And a couple of entertainment rooms where you can watch movies.  But I suggest remaining here until the Commander comes back for us.  You don’t want to get in the way.”

She pulled her datapad out of the carryall and pressed her thumb against the sensor.  It lit up, a pop-up reporting that it was unable to establish a datalink to Earth’s giant datanet and send messages to her editor.  Somehow, Penny wasn't surprised.  The datapad would need to link to the ship’s internal communications network and it would be off-limits, without the right passwords and authorisations.  She doubted she’d get them either, at least until they were allowed to send messages back home freely.  The military wouldn't be taking chances.

“You should have downloaded a few books or movies,” she said, as she opened her reader and thumbed through the options.  The latest in a long-running series about a young witch attending a school for magicians was out; it had automatically downloaded, the last time she’d connected to the datanet.  “Watch something if you don’t have any work to do.  Or try and get some sleep.”

Stevenson snorted.  Moments later, she heard the theme music from a particularly irritating soap that hadn't yet managed to be taken off the air, despite the Troubles and the First Interstellar War.  Quite how the BBC had managed to keep it going was something of a mystery.  She sighed, pulled the hatch closed and lay back on the bed.  If there was nothing to do until the ship was underway, she might as well spend the time reading.  She’d have to go to work soon enough.

***
Percy couldn't help feeling annoyed as he followed Lewis and the troopers onto the heavy-lift shuttle.  He’d sent a message to Canella the previous night, before he’d bedded down with the troops, and made the mistake of checking his email the following morning.  Canella’s message had been apologetic, but she’d made it clear that she’d found someone else after his assignment to Warspite and departure from Earth.  Percy had hit the table in anger and then forced himself to bury his feelings as deeply as he could.  They’d only prove a distraction on the voyage.  

And on the deployment, he thought.  Lewis had made it clear that they’d be exercising constantly on the ship, as well as training with the Royal Marines.  I can’t afford to be distracted.

He found his seat and sat down, waiting for the shuttle to take off.  The other message he’d found, from Penny, had been equally worrying; she’d been offered a chance to embed with the military and taken it.  By the time he’d seen it, going by the timetable she'd provided, she would already be in lockdown.  He’d fired off a quick message anyway, warning her to be careful.  She was, as far as he knew, the only blood relative he had left.

Unless mother is still out there somewhere, he thought, as the shuttle’s hatches banged closed.  But it’s been nearly six years since the war.

It wasn't something he wanted to think about, not really.  Their mother hadn't been in the house when the aliens had attacked Earth; Penny, Percy and Gayle Parkinson had been alone, forced to escape to higher ground on their own.  God alone knew what had happened to her; Percy wondered, sometimes, if she’d been drowned in the tidal waves and her body swept out to sea, or if she’d taken the opportunity to disappear and start a new life.  Either one was possible ...

The shuttle rocked and took off.  Percy closed his eyes and tried to relax, knowing there would be nothing to do until they reached Warspite.  It didn’t work; his thoughts kept buzzing through his head, reminding him that Penny was missing and Canella had left him for someone else.  He’d been warned, when he’d signed up for training, that long deployments could ruin relationships - no matter how strong they were - but he hadn't really believed it.  How could he have?  He hadn't really had any real relationships in the past.  

A romance at school doesn't count, he told himself firmly.  In hindsight, it was embarrassing to admit just how badly he’d mooned over a particular girl, then cried when she’d broken up with him.  It had felt like the end of the world ... which proved his father had been right, more than once, when he’d insisted that teenagers were stupid.  You grew out of it.

He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew was being shocked awake by a sudden twist in the gravity field.  Lewis glanced at him sharply as he opened the hatch, then motioned for the troopers to file out into the cruiser.  Percy picked up his carryall - there wasn't much in it, apart from a couple of uniforms and a datapad - and brought up the rear.  It felt odd not to be taking the lead, but Lewis had made it clear that he was to remain firmly in the back.  The troopers knew what they were doing; Percy, who hadn't passed Selection or trained with them, couldn't put himself beside them.  

Unless the shit really does hit the fan, he thought.  The stealthed shuttle should be able to make its way through the planet’s atmosphere without being detected, but the first flights down to the surface had been nightmarish even without trying to hide.  We could be blown down by a snowstorm and forced to crash - or be detected and shot down at the worst possible moment.

“Percy,” a familiar voice said.  He looked up to see Captain Darryl Hadfield, standing at the hatch to Marine Country.  “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Sir,” Percy said, awkwardly.  He wasn't quite sure where he fit in any longer, not while he was under Drake’s command.  “It’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” Hadfield said.  He looked at Drake.  “We’re putting your men - and Percy - in Compartment C.  It’ll be cramped, but there should be enough room for all of you.”

“It will do,” Drake said.  “Did you get the training schedule?”

“We’ll be happy to make your lives miserable, once we’re underway,” Hadfield said.  Percy could hear the competitiveness in his voice.  Embarrassing an SAS Troop would be a feather in Hadfield’s cap.  “For the moment, half of my unit is on guard duty and the other half is confined to Marine Country.”

“Brilliant,” Drake said.  He nodded to the hatch.  “Shall we proceed?”

Hadfield opened the hatch, allowing them to enter.  Percy felt almost as if he were coming home.  A handful of marines were sitting in the common room, either reading from their datapads or watching a movie; a couple waved to Percy, who waved back.  Lewis tossed him a sharp look - an unspoken reminder that, for the duration of the mission, he belonged to the troop - as they walked past the room and into Compartment C.  Cramped was an understatement, Percy decided.  There was barely room for twenty burly men.

“Ah, we’ve had worse,” Lewis said.  He probably had.  If some of the stories were to be believed, an entire troop of SAS operators had once been stuffed into a tiny tent in hopes of finding protection from the snow.  “Get your kit stowed away and we can start exercising - again.”

“Percy,” Hadfield said.  “A word with you.”

Percy glanced at Drake, who nodded.  “Go.”

He followed Hadfield back into the corridor and watched for the hatch to hiss closed.  “I heard you’d been reassigned, again,” Hadfield said.  “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, sir,” Percy said.

“I’ve worked with Drake,” Hadfield said.  “He’s a good man to have at your back in a firefight.”

He shrugged.  “There’s something else you should know, though,” he added.  “Your sister has managed to get herself embedded on this ship.”

Percy felt his blood run cold.  He knew the mission, at least in general terms.  It wasn't hard to fill in the remaining details.  In order to reach Clarke III, Warspite would have to pass through enemy-held territory, with at least one Indian carrier and innumerable smaller ships on the prowl.  If there was a single mistake - or if the Indians got lucky - they might be detected, hunted down and destroyed.  He’d accepted the prospect of his own death, but he didn't want to think about the risk of losing her.

“Shit,” he said.  It didn’t seem strong enough, somehow.  “Where is she?”

“She’s in lockdown at the moment,” Hadfield said.  “There are ... details of the mission that aren't common knowledge, not yet.  You can see her once we’re underway.”

“I will,” Percy said.  It would be too late to convince Penny to go elsewhere.  Even if she was allowed to leave the ship, she’d go straight into lockdown on Nelson Base.  “I thought she’d want to stay at home after ...”

Hadfield cut him off.  “Would you want to stay at home after Fort Knight?”

“That's different,” Percy said.

“How?”  Hadfield asked.  “You returned to Earth with us and now you’re setting off, back to the war front.  Your sister was returned by the Indians; now, Percy, she wants to return to the fray.”

“She isn't a soldier,” Percy protested.

“But she does have a job to do,” Hadfield told him, bluntly.  “I think it’s a little late to be overprotective.”

“I suppose,” Percy said.  “How much can I tell her?”

“Everything, once we’re underway,” Hadfield said.  “The Captain will make a ship-wide announcement.”

Percy smiled.  “So who knows and who doesn't?”

“Just stay here and keep your mouth shut,” Hadfield advised.  “Drake will keep you busy, I think.  It’s quite a honour to serve with the SAS.”

“Yes, sir,” Percy said.  It was, he knew, although he would have preferred more training before departure.  “Would you countersign my application to Selection, when this is over?”

“If you like,” Hadfield said.  “But you’d better come back alive.”

Chapter Seven

HMS Warspite, Earth Orbit

“I received your final report, Captain,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said.  He peered out of the viewscreen, his eyes suddenly very hard.  “You’re ready to depart on schedule?”

“Yes, sir,” John said.  “The crew has been reassembled, we’ve crammed our holds with spare parts and weapons, the troopers are onboard and the reporters are locked in their cabin.  We can depart in half an hour, as planned.”

“Very good,” Fitzwilliam said.  “You’ve received the updated Rules of Engagement?”

“Yes, sir,” John said.  He paused.  “Am I to assume that the diplomats are still hoping for a peaceful solution?”

“I think we’re way past that point, but the Prime Minister needs to conciliate certain parties in Parliament,” Fitzwilliam said.  “The Indians will have ample opportunity to withdraw from the occupied systems, Captain.  They have already been given the response to their ultimatum.”

John nodded.  He rarely listened to political speeches, but he’d watched the Prime Minister’s address to the nation, knowing that it was really aimed at the Indians.  They’d been told, in no uncertain terms, to withdraw from Pegasus and Cromwell or be forced out.  By now, John was sure, messages would already be heading from Earth to Pegasus, warning the Indian commanders to prepare for war.  He’d be surprised if the Indians hadn't taken the possibility of a violent response into account, but stranger things had happened.  They might well have believed that Britain would just roll over and take it.

“The current ROE will remain in effect until the task force sets out,” Fitzwilliam said.  “At that point, we will assume that we have to fight - and take the offensive.  Until then, you are to try to avoid contact.  But if you are detected, you are authorised to open fire if you feel your ship is in serious danger.”

“Good,” John said.  He wasn't entirely happy with the ROE, but he doubted they would get any better until the task force departed.  At least he didn't have to wait for the Indians to open fire before he could fire himself.  It wasn't ideal, but it would have to do.  “We’ll see you when we see you.”

“In Hannibal,” Fitzwilliam said.  “Good luck, Captain.”

His image vanished from the display.  John took a moment to gather himself - they were going to war - and then rose, walking out of the door and onto the bridge.  His crew were already preparing the ship for departure, testing and retesting everything before they left the safety of Earth.  The last thing they needed was another catastrophic failure in the middle of a war zone.  It wasn't a pleasant thought.  Once the Indians had finished laughing, they’d blow Warspite to atoms.

“Captain,” Commander Howard said, rising from the command chair.  “You have the bridge.”

“I have the bridge,” John confirmed.  “Status report?”

“All systems are fully functional,” Howard reported.  “The hatches are closed, the shuttles are stowed away and all crewmen have been accounted for.”

John sat down, bracing himself.  “Do we have an updated intelligence report from MI5?”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said.  “But it wasn't conclusive.”

“I see,” John said.  

He sighed, inwardly.  It wasn't really a surprise - the Indians would hardly have bothered to fit their spy ships with IFF transmitters that betrayed them - but it was annoying.  Had there ever been a war where both sides had shared a shipyard?  Nelson or Drake - even Woodward - would have reacted with horror to the thought.  But the Indians had dozens of facilities orbiting the Earth, easily close enough to Nelson Base to keep an eye on the British deployments.  They’d be able to watch from a distance as Warspite headed towards the tramline.

We’ll just have to evade contact as soon as we enter the Terra Nova System, he thought, grimly.  If nothing else, the Indians would have real problems keeping up with Warspite.  She wasn't the fastest thing in space, but it would be hard for a stealthed ship to follow her without revealing its presence.  Launch a drone towards the first tramline and alter course to the second ourselves.

He keyed his console.  “Engineering?”

“We’re ready, Captain,” Chief Engineer Mike Johnston reported.  He sounded happy; John knew, from Howard, that he’d spent quite a bit of time on Nelson Base.  “All systems are online.”

“Good,” John said.  “Helm, power up the drives.”

“Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Carlos Armstrong said.  A dull thrumming echoed through the cruiser as the drives came to life.  “No problems, Captain; I say again, no problems.  Power curves are normal.”

“Set a least-time course for Terra Nova,” John ordered.  “Tactical?”

“No Indian warships within scanning range,” Lieutenant-Commander Tara Rosenberg reported.  “There are, however, a number of watching ships from other nations.”

John sucked in his breath sharply as the holographic display came to life.  The Turks and Brazilians - like the Indians - wanted Great Power status for themselves.  They’d be watching with great interest, perhaps even covertly supporting the Indians, as the Royal Navy readied itself for war.  And there were no Indian warships near Earth ... they’d left their homeland wide open, save for the protection of the Solar Treaty.  

And they’re right, John thought.  We don’t dare break the treaty, even though that frees up more of their warships to hold the territory they seized.

It was a galling thought.  He understood the logic behind it - the human race would need the Indians if the Tadpoles restarted the war - but it was frustrating as hell.  No matter what happened, the Indians couldn't be defeated completely.  And they could keep producing war material and sending it out to the front, in the certain knowledge that Britain wouldn't dare to try to intercept the convoys while they were in the solar system.  The consequences would be incalculable.

We don’t even dare risk sending in the Special Forces, he thought.  Who knows where that will end?

He pushed the thought aside, irritated.  “Inform Nelson Base that we are ready to depart,” he ordered.  “And then disconnect from the station.”

“Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Gillian Forbes said, briskly.  There was a pause as she worked her console.  “We are cleared to depart, sir.”

John sucked in his breath, feeling a flicker of the old excitement.  He was now in sole command of a warship, master of all he surveyed.  Even the grim awareness that they were going to war didn't defuse his pleasure at returning to interstellar space.  No more boards of inquiry, no more endless debriefings ... just a cruise well away from the Admiralty, preventing it from looking over his shoulder.

“Take us out,” he ordered, quietly.

He sat back and watched the display as Warspite slowly pulled away from Nelson Base, passing a handful of supply ships making their slow way towards Island One.  A giant supercarrier - the Theodore Smith - hung close to the base, ready and waiting for the task force’s departure.  Behind it, a dozen frigates and destroyers were hastily preparing themselves for war.  He felt a flicker of nostalgia when he saw HMS Petunia - an escort carrier of the same class as Canopus - taking up position behind Theodore Smith.  It had been over five years since he’d served on a similar vessel ...

“We’re clear of orbital space, sir,” Armstrong reported.

“No sign of pursuit,” Tara added.

“It wouldn't matter, not so close to Earth,” John said.  The Indians had a communications chain leading all the way to Gandhi.  It might be worth arranging for something to happen to that chain before the war began in earnest.  “Helm, ramp us up to full military power and take us to the tramline.”

“Aye, sir,” Armstrong said.

Warspite quivered again as the drives thrust her forward into interplanetary space.  John glanced at the display, then hastily keyed out a message for Admiral Fitzwilliam.  It was quite likely the Admiral’s staff had already considered the possibilities - he could see why they might want the chain to remain intact - but it was well to be sure.  He finished the message and turned his attention to the display, watching the hundreds of freighters buzzing to and from the tramlines.  How many of them were carrying military-grade sensors, monitoring Warspite’s movements for the Indians?

He scowled at the thought.  The First Interstellar War had taught humanity the danger of placing all its eggs in one basket.  Every spacefaring nation was working desperately to build up its out-system colonies, including Britain.  John had even been tempted by some of the settlement grants on Britannia or Nova Scotia, although he wouldn't leave the Royal Navy unless someone dragged him out with wild elephants.  The only way to secure humanity’s place in the universe was through settlement and maintaining a powerful military machine, both of which were being risked by the confrontation.  In hindsight, if the Indians had claimed Great Power status at the end of the war, they might well have got what they wanted without a fight.

But if the key to being a Great Power is being so strong that no one can stop you without being destroyed themselves, he thought, the Indians wouldn't need acknowledgement to make them a Great Power.  They'd have everything they needed themselves.

The minutes ticked by slowly.  John kept a close eye on the status display, hoping that any problems would reveal themselves before they jumped through the tramline.  But nothing happened as the tramline grew closer, a handful of starships flickering into existence ahead of Warspite as they returned from colony missions.  It was quite likely that some of them were Indian ...

“Ready a drone,” he ordered, coolly.  “It is to be launched the moment we pass through the tramline on an evasive course to Tramline B.”

“Aye, Captain,” Tara said.

“We will go into stealth mode and make our way to Tramline E,” John added.  “Our change in course should not be noticeable.”

Unless there’s something sitting far too close to the tramline, he thought.  It was paranoia, but being paranoid was the smart option when a war was underway.  The Indians might have a watcher lying doggo.

Howard glanced at him.  “Tramline E?”

“Yes, Commander,” John said.  “Tramline E.”

He cursed the security games under his breath as the tramline grew closer.  If Howard hadn't already pieced together the true nature of their mission, he’d be able to do it now.  Commander Howard was his XO, his strong right arm - and his designated successor.  Keeping information from him was dangerous when he might have to assume command of Warspite if something happened to John.  Who knew?  Howard might take the ship to Britannia on the assumption that those were the actual orders.  It wouldn't be the first time security regulations keeping officers in the dark had caused serious problems.

It was a great deal easier, he reflected morbidly, when we didn't have to worry about human spies.

“Captain,” Armstrong said.  “We’re approaching the tramline.”

“Drone ready,” Tara added.

“Take us through,” John ordered.

He braced himself for the brief moment of disorientation as the starship hopped through the tramline, vanishing from the Sol System and reappearing in the Terra Nova System.  The display blanked out for a long chilling moment before rebooting, displaying the local star and countless energy signatures from semi-rogue mining operations and a dozen quasi-legal settlements.  It definitely looked as though the activity was starting to taper off a little, but it would be a long time before the system was under a single government.  Terra Nova’s strongest export remained people in search of a more peaceful life.

“Local space is clear,” Tara reported.

It proved nothing, John knew.  A starship with her drives and active sensors shut down would be completely undetectable, except at very close range.  The Indians could have a watchdog spying on the tramline ... but they’d have to know, in advance, the precise coordinate where Warspite would materialise.  It wasn't impossible, he knew.  Just merely very unlikely.

“Launch the drone,” he ordered.  “Take us into stealth mode ... now.”

“Aye, sir,” Tara said.  There was a long pause.  “The drone is on its way to Tramline B.”

John nodded, once.  The beancounters would make a fuss - they never let a war get in the way of keeping costs as low as they could - but it didn't matter.  All that mattered was the simple fact that anyone watching Warspite from a distance would track the drone on its course to Tramline B, where it would deactivate itself.  They’d think that Warspite had left the system, rather than altering course to head to Tramline E.  If everything went according to plan, the Indians would never know that Warspite was on her way to Pegasus.

“Set course for Tramline E,” he ordered.

“Aye, sir,” Armstrong said.  “Course laid in.”

“Engage,” John ordered.  

He smiled to himself.  Armstrong would, of course, have plotted out the course as soon as John had mentioned where they’d be going, then stored it in his console until the time came to bring it out.  It was a common technique.  Warspite thrummed again as she picked up speed, thrusting away from the tramline before anything else could come through and detect their presence.  He sat back in his command chair and forced himself to wait, keeping a sharp eye on the passive sensors.  If anyone was close enough to watch them without being detected, they’d have to reveal themselves now or lose track of Warspite.

“Commander Howard,” he said.  “You have the bridge.”

“Aye, sir,” Howard said.  “I have the bridge.”

John nodded, stepped into his office and opened the secure drawer.  The sealed orders were where he’d left them; he plugged the datachip into his terminal, waited for the verification program to confirm that they had left Earth far behind and then sat down to read through the orders as soon as they were unlocked and displayed.  They were nothing more than a more detailed version of Admiral Fitzwilliam’s verbal instructions, he was relieved to note.  It wouldn't be the first time sealed orders had differed markedly from whatever the recipient had been told beforehand.

He uploaded the orders onto the datanet, rose and walked back onto the bridge.  Howard rose to his feet; John sat back down, motioned for Howard to read the orders quickly, then keyed his console.  It was time to inform the crew.

“All hands, this is the Captain,” he said.  Everyone would hear him, from the reporters to the SAS troopers in Marine Country.  “As some of you will have surmised, we are not heading for Britannia.  Our orders, instead, are to make our way to enemy-held territory and conduct a full tactical survey of their positions.  This is, of course, a somewhat more challenging mission than you may have expected.”

He smiled at the thought before continuing.  “We will proceed immediately up the tramlines to Pegasus and commence our mission,” he said.  “As it is imperative that we remain undetected, we will remain in stealth mode from this moment on.  We will not be opening communications links to anyone until we rendezvous with the remainder of the task force after completing this mission.  They are depending on us to succeed.

“This is not our first operation where we had to sneak through enemy territory, but it will be the most difficult,” he added.  “And yet, we have the experience to make it work.  The Indians will not even catch a sniff of us before we return to the task force.  I have faith in our ship - and in each and every one of you.  We will complete our mission and lay the groundwork for recovering our territory.”

He keyed his console again, closing the channel.  “Commander Howard,” he said.  “You have read the orders?”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said.  He didn't sound very surprised.  “I will make a note of it in my log.”

“Thank you,” John said.  He had to fight down the urge to ask just how much his XO had guessed before the sealed orders were revealed.  Howard was smart; he’d probably guessed the truth long before the SAS had arrived.  “Note also that the sealed orders were not disclosed ahead of time.”

“Aye, sir,” Howard said.

John settled back in his command chair and forced himself to relax, as completely as he could.  It would take a fortnight, at the best speed they could manage while remaining in stealth mode, to reach Pegasus.  The Indians might have pickets watching for them, he knew; if he was in command of their fleet, he would have placed at least one watching scout in J-34, one jump from Pegasus.  An enemy ship advancing from Earth, thanks to the tramlines, would have to pass through that system.  There was simply no way to avoid it.

But we’re very tiny and space is very big, he reminded himself.  They won’t be able to spot us unless we get unlucky - or careless.

“Inform the crew that one deck is to be put aside for the SAS, once they start training,” he ordered, curtly.  The presence of the SAS had been meant to be secret, although he suspected some of his crewmen had probably guessed who they were.  “And make sure it’s completely sealed off.”

“Aye, sir,” Howard said.

“We'll discuss other aspects of the mission tonight,” John said.  He’d have to meet with the reporters at least once, even though he would have preferred to avoid it.  “But it can wait for the moment.”

He took one final look at the display, then forced himself to think about the future.  The voyage would be the easy part.  Hell, it would be boring once they slipped out of settled systems and away from watching eyes.  But once they reached Pegasus, the real fun would begin ...

... And if the Indians were on the prowl, he knew, getting close enough to deploy the stealth shuttle would be far from easy.

Chapter Eight

HMS Warspite, In Transit

“There's someone at the door,” Stevenson called.  They’d been told they could leave their cabin, once the starship had left Earth, but he’d spent most of his time just lying on the sofa.  “He wants to see you.”

“Oh,” Penny said.  She stood and peered out of the cabin.  “Percy?”

“Penny,” Percy said.  He didn't sound pleased.  “Can we talk?”

Penny nodded, slowly.  She had known he’d been assigned to Warspite for her first cruise, but she hadn't realised that he’d be returned to the ship after the disaster on Vesy.  Meeting him was a shock ... she hesitated, wondering if they could use the bedroom, then walked out of the cabin.  Percy would have to know somewhere they could go for a private chat.

“I suppose we can,” she said.  “Do you know anywhere private?”

Percy nodded and led her through a maze of corridors into the observation blister.  It was empty, thankfully; she ran forward and pressed her face against the transparent material, staring out into the vastness of interstellar space.  Countless stars burned steadily in the darkness, their unblinking gazes calling to her.  She knew, intellectually, that Warspite was making her way through space at unimaginable speeds, but it looked very much as though they were standing still.  The stars didn't seem to be moving at all.

“I was surprised to see you,” she confessed, once the hatch was firmly closed.  “Did you know you’d be returning to Warspite?”

“I was surprised to see you,” Percy said, gruffly.  “What are you doing here?”

“My job,” Penny snapped.  There were times when having an overprotective brother came in handy, but this wasn't one of them.  “Witnessing living history and sending reports back home.”

“So the enemy can read them with great interest,” Percy sneered.  He had never really approved of her career choice.  “Are you sure you won’t accidentally betray us?”

“Everything I write has to pass through the censors,” Penny snapped back.  “It’s not my fault if they miss something that might help the Indians!”

“They’ll probably overlook tons of useful information,” Percy muttered.  “I doubt they know which end of a rifle fires the bullets.”

“I’m sure the Indians do,” Penny said.  “Unless you’re expecting them to commit suicide when you land on Clarke.”

Percy tensed, slightly.  It would have been unnoticeable if she hadn't known him so well.

“I’m expecting hard fighting,” he said, finally.  Was he planning to land on Clarke?  She didn't like the thought, but it was his job.  “You could get yourself killed out here.”

“You could get yourself killed out here,” Penny said.  She crossed her arms under her breasts, scowling at him.  “This isn't a refugee camp, Percy, and I’m not a teenager any longer.”

“Thanks be to God,” Percy said.  “You were hellish as a teenager.”

Penny smirked.  “I could tell Canella all sorts of stories about your teenage years ...”

Percy’s expression darkened.  “She broke up with me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Penny said, sincerely.  She’d only met Canella once, but she’d liked the girl.  “Did the deployments get to her?”

“Yeah,” Percy said.  “I think she must have had second thoughts from the moment I said goodbye to her.  Being on a starship is a far cry from serving on the other side of the world.”

Penny nodded in agreement.  It only took seven hours to travel from one side of the world to the other - or it had, before the war.  The hypersonic jets that had once bound Earth together had largely been grounded, all services cancelled as the human race struggled to survive and rebuild.  Percy could have returned to Edinburgh every couple of months when he went on leave, if he wished; it was a great deal harder to travel between Earth and Vesy.  Canella hadn't seen him for over a year.

“Well, I’m sure you will find someone else,” she said, briskly.  “Are there any young women on the ship you might like?”

“If I have time,” Percy said.  “Do you know how hard it was to get a chance to come see you?”

Penny gave him a sharp look.  “No,” she said.  “What are you doing?”

“Training,” Percy said.  He held up one hand.  “And it’s classified, so please don’t ask about it.”

“I won’t,” Penny said.  She had a feeling that she was right, that Percy was going to land on Clarke, but she kept that thought to herself.  “It’s good to see you again, even if it is ... here.”

“I suppose,” Percy said.  “I'd be happier if you were safer, Pen-Pen.”

Penny felt her cheeks heat.  “I’m not a child any longer, Percy,” she said.  “And is there anywhere safe these days?”

It wasn't a pleasant thought.  They’d grown up in a safe environment; their father hadn't been wealthy, but he’d earned enough to give the family a security blanket and ensure that his children received a good education.  And then their father had gone off to war, their mother had vanished during the bombardment and they’d had to flee the onrushing waters in hopes of finding a safe place to rest.  She'd gone back to their home town later, after the area had been declared safe, only to discover that their home had been looted.  Everything they’d owned had been either stolen or destroyed by the waves.

They’d been lucky, she knew.  Admiral Fitzwilliam had taken them in, after the war; they’d had a measure of safety that few others had enjoyed.   And yet, there had been no guarantees of anything.  They’d worked in the Reclamation Corps before Percy had gone into the Royal Marines and she’d found work as a reporter, but it could easily have been worse.  She’d seen the bodies recovered from the waters and known she could have died there too.

“I suppose there isn't,” Percy said.  “But a war zone is even less safe than anywhere else.”

Penny rolled her eyes.  “Like I said, I’m not a child any longer,” she said.  “I knew the job was dangerous when I signed up for it.”

She cleared her throat.  “So ... do you have your eye on anyone?”

“Not yet,” Percy said.  “Who’s the milksop in your cabin?”

“A fellow reporter,” Penny said.  “He gets the sofa, I get the bed.”

“What a fair division of labour,” Percy murmured.  “So ... not a boyfriend then?”

“No,” Penny said.  “I’m still writing to Hamish, but ...”

“A Para,” Percy said, with mock horror.  “You’re dating a Para.  I’ll never be able to hold my head up in public again.”

Penny stuck out her tongue.  “Does it really matter who I date?”

“I just don’t want you hurt,” Percy said.  He sighed.  “Our parents had problems because dad was away, fighting the war.”

“I know,” Penny said.  She had no idea if Percy knew - she was damned if she was going to tell him, if he didn’t - but she was sure their mother had been having an affair.  And their father too, perhaps.  “I’m only writing to him, Percy.  There’s no guarantee of anything.”

“I suppose not,” Percy said.  “3 Para was earmarked for deployment, the last I heard, but they’re currently reforming after Vesy.  They may wind up being held back while 2 Para joined the task force.”

“His last message wasn't too clear,” Penny said.  “I had to tell him that I’d been accepted as an embed and that I wouldn't be able to email him for a while.”

“I have no idea what he’ll make of that,” Percy said.  “Some of the lads I served with were married.  They liked the thought of coming home to a wife and kids.”

“I suppose it would have its charms,” Penny said.  “Does it always work out?”

“We’re encouraged not to marry until we’ve completed our first deployments,” Percy said, softly.  “It can play merry hell with marriages.”

Penny gave him a sharp look.  “How would you know about that, Percy?”

“It’s one of the things we’re told in training,” Percy said.  “Being a marine means that your life no longer belongs to you.  Your service to the company comes first.”

He glanced at his watch.  “There isn't much time left,” he admitted.  “I’ll try to see you again before the shit hits the fan.”

“It can't be worse than Vesy,” Penny said.  She'd come far too close to death on the alien homeworld.  She still had nightmares, sometimes, about alien mobs closing in on her.  “Can it?”

“I hope not,” Percy said.  He shrugged.  “How did the Indians treat you?”

“They were decent enough,” Penny said.  “Once they had us, they tended to our wounds - those of us who were wounded - and then shipped us back to Earth.  I was half-hoping they’d give me a chance to embed with their forces, but they evidently thought better of it.”

“They’d have turned you into a propaganda mouthpiece,” Percy said.  “You wouldn't have been able to hold your head up in public again.”

“I imagine it would have been embarrassing,” Penny agreed, dryly.  “The Admiral would not have been pleased.”

She sighed.  “Did you have a chance to talk to him?”

“Not properly,” Percy said.  “I only saw him at a couple of debriefings, where he listened without speaking.  There was no chance for a private chat.”

Penny winced.  The Admiral was, perhaps, the only person they knew who could tell them how their father had died, but he’d refused to be drawn on the subject.  She’d researched it as best as she could, yet no matter what she did she kept running into stone walls.  There was a great deal of information in the public domain about the final flight of Ark Royal, but it only made it clearer just how much had been hidden.  How and why had their father died?  

If he’d died in the final battle, he would have been memorialised as such, she thought.  There had to be some mystery surrounding his death.  An accident - or a suicide - wouldn’t have been covered up.  Did he die on the Old Lady herself?

“I haven’t seen him for years,” she said.  “I actually turned down an invitation to the Christmas Ball because I was busy.”

“Go interview him,” Percy suggested.  “You’re a reporter, aren't you?  I’m sure he’ll be delighted to give you a proper interview.”

“I doubt it,” Penny said.  Apart from the PR officers, who could talk for hours on end about nothing at all, she had yet to meet a naval officer who was glad to see a reporter.  Percy probably didn't count.  “What would you say if I tried to interview you?”

Percy smirked.  “Just remember to describe me as a handsome, strong, clever, sophisticated, cunning, smart, snarky, alpha male ...”

“Oh, piss off and eat a dictionary,” Penny said.  She struck a writing pose.  “Corporal Percy is a smug conceited git ...”

“Lieutenant,” Percy said.  “I’m a Lieutenant now.”

“I notice you didn't deny the rest of it,” Penny said.  She smirked at his expression, then sobered.  “I don’t think the Admiral would be too pleased to get an interview request from me - I’d either have to be tough, which would irritate him, or soft-pedal.  And that would be held against me later.”

Percy frowned.  “It would?”

“He’s our guardian,” Penny reminded him, sarcastically.  “All right, we’re both adults now, but we haven’t broken the connection.  People will expect me not to be too hard on him.”

“So they’ll assume the worst,” Percy mused.  “That could be a problem.”

“Yeah,” Penny agreed.  “It could.”

She shook her head.  “I think we should probably ask him after the war,” she added.  “But if it’s been classified, Percy, it may have been classified for a reason.”

“I know,” Percy said.  “But I still want to know.”

He glanced at his watch again.  “It’s time to go back to training,” he said.  He swept her into a brief hug.  “I love you, little sister.”

“I’m not that little,” Penny said, hugging him back.  “Good luck with your training.”

Percy’s face darkened.  “I’ll need it.”

Penny watched him go before turning to look back out at the stars.  Their father’s body was lost somewhere in the darkness, she knew; it had certainly never been recovered and shipped home to Earth.  That was true of most of the crewmen who’d died on Ark Royal, but she’d tracked down as many death reports as she could and they’d all been listed as going down with the ancient carrier.  Hell, most of the starfighter pilots had died there too.  There was simply no reason to assume their father hadn’t died there, save for the simple fact that he hadn't been included on a list of the dead ...

And for the fact that Rose Labara and Prince Henry were listed as commanders of the starfighter squadrons, she thought.  That should have been dad’s job ... which suggests, very strongly, that dad died before the final battle.

She shook her head in irritation and turned to walk out of the hatch.  A pair of crewmen nodded politely to her as she left, manhandling another cart crammed with supplies down the corridor towards the tactical compartment.  Penny briefly considered trying to ask them a few questions, but knew it would probably get her in trouble.  Instead, she kept walking until she was standing at the hatch leading into the mess.  A handful of crewmen were sitting at tables, hastily eating as much as they could before going on duty or returning to their quarters to sleep.

“Hey,” the cook called.  “You come to eat something nice?”

Penny smiled.  The cook had been happy to chat with her during the first deployment, joking that he’d undertaken the hardest training course in the Royal Navy.  He hadn't passed, of course; apparently, no one passed the catering course.  Penny had to admit the food wasn't five-star, but it was filling and there was plenty of it.  No wonder the cook was overweight ...

But then, she thought as she walked over to join him, who’d trust a skinny cook?

“I could do with it,” she agreed.  “What do you have?”

The cook smiled.  “Suspicious sausages, questionable potatoes, portable human-methane converters ... or fruit and vegetables, if you feel like being picky.”

Penny had to smile.  “Do we have any fresh fruit?”

“Yeah, but not for long,” the cook said.  “Better get your fair share before it’s all gone.”

“Give me some sausages, chips and beans,” Penny said.  She’d have to work it off later, but thankfully they had free access to the exercise compartment.  “Do you have a few moments to chat?”

“Only off the record,” the cook boomed.  He picked up a pair of sausages and dropped them onto a plate, then added the chips and a healthy serving of beans.  “Unless you want to gripe about the food.  There’s no way we can serve fresh food throughout the voyage.”

Penny nodded as she took her plate.  “I have travelled in space before,” she said.  She didn't like to think about where the reprocessed food came from - no one did - but it was just something that had to be endured.  “As long as the supply of hot sauce holds out, we should be fine.”

“Ah, we lost a bottle last night,” the cook said.  “One of those new guys from Marine Country came in, pinched a bottle and downed it like cheap beer, right in front of us.  His poor girlfriend!”

“He actually managed to drink a whole bottle?”  Penny asked.  She’d tasted navy-issue hot sauce in the past, during her first cruise.  It probably violated international laws against chemical weapons just by existing.  She had certainly not been able to tolerate more than a drop or two at a time.  “Why?”

“Ah, some stupid contest between them and the marines, I imagine,” the cook said.  “We had a bunch of Paras on Hamilton and they spent half their time trying to one-up the marines.”

Penny considered it as she tucked into her food.  A new group of soldiers?  They couldn't be marines ... which meant what?  If they were Paras, Percy would probably have mentioned them when she’d talked about Hamish.  And that meant they had to be Special Forces.

“I’m sure you have at least a hundred more bottles,” she said, finally.  “Or did they take them back to their lair to drink too?”

“I hope not,” the cook said.  “It’s bad enough catching crewmen who are trying to raid the galley.”

He grinned.  “But enough about them,” he said.  “How are you feeling about going to war?”

“I was on Vesy,” Penny said, automatically.

“This will be different,” the cook said.  He made a show of stirring the beans.  “The Indians will be shooting at us, if they catch wind of our presence.  Perhaps serving beans was a bad idea.”

“I’m torn between excitement and fear,” Penny admitted.  It wasn’t something she’d want to admit to Percy.  He’d just point out that she could have stayed on Earth.  “Is it always that way?”

“I was an assistant cook during the first war,” the cook said.  He slapped his belly meaningfully.  “I didn’t actually fight; I just kept the fighters fed and watered.  And I learned there was no point in stressing out, even in the middle of a war zone.  If a missile has our name on it, we’re dead; if it doesn't, we’ll live to see another day.  That’s all that’s important.”

“Very profound,” Penny said.

“We can't all be starship commanders or starfighter jocks,” the cook said.  “Some of us merely keep the rest of the crew alive.  We just do our duty and leave the rest in God’s hands.”

“True,” Penny agreed.  She finished her meal.  “And thank you for the food.”

“I must have done something wrong,” the cook muttered.  He eyed the plate suspiciously.  “You’re the first person who actually thanked me.”

Penny laughed and left the compartment.

Chapter Nine

Nelson Base, Earth Orbit

“That’s the latest report, Admiral,” Commander Sally Acorn said.  “Captain Tracy states that HMS Lillian should be ready for departure along with the rest of the task force.”

“I trust you inspected the report carefully,” James said.  “Lillian was in the repair yards last week, wasn't she?”

“Yes, sir,” Sally said.  “However, it was only routine maintenance and she has been cleared for active service.  The only downside is that some of her crew were drawn from the reserves and need time to work up for duty.”

“Then add her to the fleet list and make sure she’s slotted into the training schedule,” James said, after a moment.  He understood Captain Tracy wanting to get into the fight; James would just have to hope that Captain Tracy hadn't been so determined to be involved that he’d creatively edited his readiness report when the CVE left the yards.  “Give him copies of the security codes and inform him that I’ll expect him to attend the final briefing before departure.”

“Yes, sir,” Sally said.  She cleared her throat.  “Mr. Oswald requested an appointment to speak with you, later in the day.”

“Joy,” James said.  “Inform him that I will see him” - he glanced at his schedule - “at 1500 precisely, on Nelson Base.  I can't afford to take time off to go to London or Luna Nine right now.”

“I’ll see to it,” Sally said.  James didn't envy her.  The intelligence services - MI5 and MI6 - tended to be pushy.  “There was also an update from the Foreign Office.  The Americans will be dispatching another carrier to the border, allowing us to pull one back to reinforce the task force.”

“Good,” James grunted.  It would be at least two months before the carrier arrived, but by then he had a feeling he’d welcome the reinforcements.  “Is there anything else?”

“Not at the moment, sir,” Sally said.

She saluted and withdrew, leaving James alone.  He shook his head tiredly; civilians might expect spacers to study tactics, but the blunt truth was that he spent most of his time studying logistics.  The old saying still held true, even in the twenty-third century; there was no point in coming up with cunning battle plans if one couldn't get the ships out and support them.  It had seemed so much easier when he’d served on Ark Royal.

And it was still a pain keeping the task force supplied, he thought, ruefully.  We had real problems during Operation Nelson.

He pushed the thought aside as he checked the latest set of updates.  The task force was taking shape, the ships slowly assembling in orbit near Nelson Base.  He’d considered various ways to try to hide a ship or two, but he rather doubted they could prevent the Indians from making some very good guesses about the task force’s size and composition.  Beyond the warships, a dozen freighters waited, crammed with the supplies they’d need to fight the war.  Losing them, in some ways, would be just as bad as losing the carrier.

But if we do lose the carrier, we lose the ability to take the offensive, he thought, sourly.  The Indians will know that as well as we do.

It was a galling thought.  Seven years ago - when aliens were nothing more than a figment of human imagination - the Indians wouldn't have had a chance.  The Royal Navy could have squashed their entire military in a single battle and that would be that.  But now, between the losses caused by the war and the advancements in military technology, the odds would be far more even.  The Indians, if they took out the carrier, might win by default. 

Five years from now, we’ll have a whole fleet of modern carriers, he thought.  They picked their time very well.

His intercom buzzed.  “Admiral,” Sally said.  “Admiral Soskice has arrived.  He’s requesting an immediate meeting.”

Tell him to go away, James thought.  He wasn't sure he wanted to speak to Admiral Soskice, not now.  Tell him to make an appointment ...

He pushed temptation aside.  “Send him in,” he said.  He had at least half an hour before the next scheduled meeting, unless something came up beforehand.  “I’ll speak to him now.”

The hatch opened, revealing Admiral Soskice.  James had always cordially disliked him - Admiral Soskice had never commanded a ship at war, which made all of his experience theoretical at best - and they’d been rivals over the past two years.  Soskice’s position as head of the Next Generation Weapons program had given him a yen for developing new technology and pushing it into active service, often before it had been properly tested.  James would be the first to admit that some of Soskice’s ideas had worked well - the starfighter-mounted plasma cannons, for example - but others had been asking for trouble.

“Admiral,” Soskice said.  With his balding dome and unshaven face, he didn't even manage to look like a naval officer.  James couldn't help thinking of him as an academic who was somewhat out of his depth.  The horn-rimmed spectacles only added to that impression.  “Thank you for seeing me.”

“I wasn’t aware you had an appointment,” James said, dryly.  “Doubtless my aide made a terrible mistake.”

“You’re going to be in command of the task force,” Soskice said, sitting down without being invited.  “Do you intend to fight a conventional war?”

“I believe we have little choice,” James said.  “This isn't a war against an alien foe.”

“The balance of technology has shifted,” Soskice said.  “You know that as well as I do.”

“It has changed,” James conceded, reluctantly.  He'd been a mere commander when the Tadpoles had obliterated a multinational naval force - including two British carriers - at New Russia, but he still remembered the shock that had run through the entire navy.  It had been the most one-sided battle since kinetic weapons had been dropped on Argentina during the Third Falklands War.  “But the essentials remain the same.”

“The Indians have been learning from our troubles,” Soskice pointed out.  “Their carriers are armoured with modern plating ...”

“So is the Teddy,” James countered.

“And their fleet mix isn't so dependent on starfighters,” Soskice added, ignoring the interruption.  “You know as well as I do, James, that starfighters are no longer the queens of the battlefield.”

“That’s debatable,” James said.

“We’ve run countless simulations that prove it beyond all doubt,” Soskice snapped.  It was an old argument, one they’d had many times before.  “You know that as well as I do.”

James felt his temper flare.  Somehow, he put firm controls on it.

“You know as well as I do that those simulations depend on what assumptions are programmed into the machines,” he said.  “Your assumptions are always hopelessly pessimistic.”

“And yours are hopelessly optimistic,” Soskice said.  “Are you truly that wedded to the concept of the carrier and her flocks of starfighters?”

“I’m a carrier officer,” James said, curtly.  

He glanced at the picture he’d hung on the bulkhead - Ark Royal’s command crew on the eve of her departure for Alien-Prime - and felt a stab of guilt.  He’d tried to ease Commodore Smith out of his command in the hopes it would allow James to claim to have commanded a carrier at a very early age.  Perhaps it would have worked, too, if Smith hadn't cleaned up his act.  There were moments when James wanted to go back in time and punch his younger self in the nose.

“The carrier is a dying breed,” Soskice said.  “There are limits to how much we can protect them against the new developments in weaponry.”

“Defensive technology has also advanced,” James pointed out.

“And starfighters themselves are easy targets for plasma cannons,” Soskice said.  “Their aim may not be perfect, but they can pump out a hell of a lot of fire.  The Indians have crammed their ships with plasma cannons.”

“So have we,” James snapped.

“But they’re the ones on the defensive,” Soskice said.  “They have other advantages too.”

James looked him in the eye.  “Do you have a wonder weapon that will blow the enemy ships out of space with the push of a button?”

“No,” Soskice said.  “The closest we have to it is the heavy plasma cannon.”

“Which you mounted on Warspite,” James said.  He had to admit that it had proved its value, but only against a target that hadn’t been expecting it.  “We may be able to use it against one of the Indian ships.”

Soskice tapped his knee, impatiently.  “James, the blunt truth is that the pre-war fleet mix is no longer suitable,” he said.  “We had a number of massive carriers and hundreds of tiny frigates and destroyers.  Now ... we need to start work on middling ships.”

It was, James knew, an old problem.  The Royal Navy needed carriers to serve as command ships and starfighter platforms, but the huge carriers were extremely big targets.  Smaller ships - the frigates - were tiny, small enough that they could be built in vast numbers without breaking the budget.  But they too had relied on the carriers for logistics support.  Now, with the war exposing weaknesses in humanity’s concepts, there was a need for a whole new class of mid-sized ships, starships that combined the range of a carrier with the mobility of a frigate.

Warspite did well, he thought, as much as he hated to concede anything to Soskice.  But it’s dangerous to build a whole new fleet without testing the concepts thoroughly first.

“Right now, we are going to war,” he said, instead.  “And we’re going to war with the ships we have on hand.  There’s no way to avoid it.  The Indians aren't going to let us wait for five years, or ten, or however long it takes to put a whole new fleet mix together.”

“True,” Soskice said.

“Warspite is currently on a mission,” James said.  “Do you have anything else we can use now?”

“We’ve been updating the penetrator heads on missile warheads,” Soskice said.  “One of them produces a very weak EMP.  It's useless against starships, of course, because they’re always hardened, but it may cause the plasma containment fields to overload.”

“Useful,” James said.  They’d killed a number of Tadpole starfighters that way.  “Does it actually work in the field?”

“It hasn't been tested,” Soskice said.  “But the lab reports are very promising.”

“They always are,” James said.

He'd wondered why Uncle Winchester had taken early retirement, right up until the time he’d spent a year in the Ministry of Defence, London.  Every corporation that produced weapons and technology for the military was determined - very determined - to convince the MOD to buy its products.  A fat military contract could be worth billions of pounds over the next few years.  Naturally, the salesmen went all-out to convince the MOD that the latest gadget would utterly revolutionise the face of war.  

And they’re mostly wrong, he thought.  And when we say no, they start whining to the Members of Parliament.

“We can take a handful along and give them a try,” he said.  The Indians would know the dangers - it wasn't as if the use of EMP in war was a secret - but it was worth adding a couple to the missile load.  “Anything else?”

“Modified drive field launchers,” Soskice said.  “And improved ECM for missile warheads.”

“It’s the drive fields that are the real problem,” James pointed out.

“That’s something we’re working on,” Soskice said.  “We’re actually looking at plans for a battleship, rather than a carrier.”

James’s eyes narrowed.  “Wouldn't that have all the disadvantages of a carrier with none of the advantages?”

“No, because we could scale up the drives,” Soskice said.  “Given the latest improvements in power and weapons technology, we could also rig the ship with solid armour and heavy energy weapons.  It would be on a very different scale to anything we currently have.”

“I’d like to see the plans,” James said.  “But for the moment, we won’t be able to deploy it against the Indians.”

“It isn't anything more than a concept,” Soskice admitted.  “The real question, of course, is just how far the Indians have advanced.”

James sighed.  There were several different intelligence assessments of just how far the Indians had advanced, all of which came to radically different conclusions.  One had asserted that the Indians simply didn't have anything more advanced than the pre-war Royal Navy; another had claimed that the Indian Navy was composed entirely of modern ships and had the firepower to even the odds against the British.   James was inclined to believe the truth lay somewhere between the two, but where?  He knew the Indians had at least one modern carrier, and presumably a number of smaller modern ships, yet just how capable was it?

They never trained with us, after the war came to an end, he thought.  Their government must have been plotting the war as soon as they realised we were gravely weakened; they wouldn't have wanted to give us any insight into their capabilities.

“There’s no way to know until we actually engage them,” James said.  He rather doubted the Indians would withdraw, even though they had to know the task force was gearing up for war.  Instead, MI6 reported that they were working on shoring up their diplomatic position and preparing to hold the territory they’d stolen.  “Unless you have any insights ...?”

“They will be looking for a silver bullet themselves,” Soskice noted.  “I expect they’ll have poured more resources than us into finding ways to counter starfighters.”

“But you don't know,” James said.  He cursed the simulations under his breath.  Was it not possible, really, to hold a simulation without politics becoming involved?  War games made more sense ... but then, there had been war games in the past when the winning party was known in advance.  “No one knows.”

“Of course not,” Soskice said.  “But we have to assume the worst.”

“And try not to fall into the Superiority trap at the same time,” James said.  “They did make you read it, didn't they?”

“The people in the story were idiots,” Soskice said.  He leaned forward as he spoke.  “They already held the whip hand when they started fiddling with their weapons mix and coming up with new ideas.  The story makes it clear that their victory was just a matter of time.”

“True, I suppose,” James said.  “One could make the same argument about the First World War, Admiral.  It doesn't mean that sending wave after wave of men across No Man’s Land to be mowed down by machine guns was particularly bright.”

“We are not in that situation,” Soskice continued, ignoring the comment.  “You served during the war, Admiral.  The Tadpoles held the whip hand and we would have been defeated, easily, if we hadn't kept an ancient carrier in service.  They had more advanced weapons, more advanced ships and knew us far too well.  We knew nothing about them until we recovered bodies and a semi-intact ship during the war.”

“I was there,” James snapped.

“That’s my point,” Soskice said.  “We cannot afford to stop pushing the edges and researching newer weapons, because we cannot rest on our laurels.  The Tadpoles will advance further now, as will the smaller human powers.  We simply do not have enough of a margin of superiority - no margin at all - to relax.  Pushing the edges is our only hope of remaining in the lead.”

“You assume there will be future developments,” James said.

“From a modern-day perspective, Superiority is laughable,” Soskice pointed out.  “They build a colossal tactical computer so large they have to carry it in a giant space liner.  We can produce something with far more computing power easily, something so small it can sit on your desktop.  Clarke simply couldn't imagine some of the developments that took place during his lifetime.  We didn't master the use of plasma weapons until the Tadpoles showed us the way.”

James scowled at him.  “The principle remains unchanged.”

Soskice shrugged.  “Yes, there will be new developments,” he said.  “And yes, some of them will not be as useful as we might hope, at least on first blush.  But we have to be ready to take advantage of them.  Or the Indians will do it instead.”

“We don’t have time,” James said.  “And we are reluctant to give up the weapons mix we know works in exchange for something we don’t trust.”

“The Indians have every incentive to innovate,” Soskice said.  “It’s not easy to predict the future, James, but I ran a set of simulations.”

“Psychohistory was discredited a long time ago,” James said.

“With good reason,” Soskice said.  “It could not predict the Tadpoles, for example, or the slow avalanche of changes caused by unpredictable human decisions.  But you can predict some things reasonably well.  Assuming there isn't a second war, or a series of natural disasters, our productive capability will continue to rise sharply.  The Indians simply don’t have the groundwork to match us.  In ten years, we’ll be well ahead of them.”

“Good,” James said.

“But that doesn't take into account new developments,” Soskice added.  “What if the Indians develop something new?  Like I said, they have every reason to innovate.”

“Which would be inherently unpredictable,” James said.  “We have to deal with things as they are.”

He shook his head.  “I understand your concerns, Admiral, but I have a great deal of work to do,” he said.  “My next appointment is due at any minute.”

“This is a serious matter,” Soskice said.

“I know,” James said.  He did understand Soskice’s position.  Hell, he even agreed with it to some extent.  “But there’s no way to improve our weapons within the week, is there?  We have to challenge the Indian positions with what we have on hand, not what we’d like to have.  The future will have to take care of itself.”

Chapter Ten

Clarke III, Pegasus System

“General,” his aide said.  “A courier boat just jumped into the system and made contact.  There is a secure message for you.”

General Anjeet Patel nodded, shortly.  “Have it relayed to my office,” he said.  “I’ll decrypt it there.”

He stood, taking the opportunity to look around the CIC.  INS Viraat was the most modern carrier in the navy - perhaps the most modern carrier in the human sphere - but it was the first time she’d gone into a war zone.  Her crew had never been truly tested, despite endless exercises; it galled him, sometimes, that the Indian Navy hadn't been a big player in the First Interstellar War.  The British, whatever else could be said about them, had amassed a staggering number of experienced officers to command their ships.

And the British had plenty of time to rebuild their starfighter arm, he thought, as he stepped through the secure hatch into his office.  Viraat had more than enough space for his staff, as well as the two thousand officers and men who made up the crew.  They’ll have learned a great deal from the war.

He closed the hatch behind him and strode over to the table.  The message was already blinking up on the terminal; he pressed his hand against the scanner, allowing it to read his ID implant, as he sat down on the chair.  A steward appeared from the side hatch, offering coffee; Anjeet shook his head firmly and dismissed the steward as the message finished decrypting itself.  It should be secure, he told himself, but there was no way to be sure.  If there was one form of international warfare that had never abated, even during the Age of Unrest, it was the endless contest between intelligence agencies.  The British would have been trying to crack India’s codes long before they knew there would be war.

The Prime Minister’s face popped up in front of him, looking grim.  “General,” he said, without preamble.  “The British have flatly refused to accept our terms.  They will not recognise our conquests and will not consider our other demands until we withdraw from the occupied star systems.  There is, in short, no reason to assume they will concede some points in exchange for our submission.”

Of course not, Anjeet thought, wryly.  If we backed down, they’d take it as a sign of weakness.

“Instead, the British are assembling a task force to recapture the occupied systems,” the Prime Minister continued.  “Details are attached; intelligence believes there will be at least one fleet carrier, two escort carriers and at least a dozen smaller ships.  The British have been quite successful in concealing precisely which ships have been assigned to where; we believe there will be several more ships added to the task force, but we don't know for sure.  There will be talks and more talks, no doubt, none of which will get anywhere.  There are no reasonable grounds for compromise.

“Accordingly, you are ordered to move to phase two.  Defend the occupied territories; prevent, if possible, the British from gaining a foothold in either Pegasus or Cromwell.  The ROE have been updated, allowing you to fire first if you believe the British threaten your positions.  However, we do not want any atrocities.  The war is to be conducted in as civilised a manner as possible.”

Anjeet nodded, curtly.  He had no interest in any atrocities either.  

“I don’t think I have to remind you that the world is watching like an elderly relative who knows you did something rude, even if she isn't quite sure,” the Prime Minister warned.  “Do everything you can to protect the British civilians; keep the POWs separate, if you don’t want to spare the shipping to return them home, and treat them in line with the standard conventions.  The other interstellar powers may become involved if we do otherwise.”

He paused for a long moment.  “We need to slap the British back as hard as possible, once their task force arrives,” he concluded.  “Should open shooting commence, the gloves are to come off completely; you are to switch to ROE-3.  At that point, General, you may take the offensive down the tramlines.”

“Brilliant,” Anjeet muttered, sarcastically.

“I’ll keep you updated to the best of my ability,” the Prime Minister said.  “Good luck.”

His image vanished, revealing a handful of encrypted files.  Anjeet cursed under his breath as he opened them, one by one, and skimmed through.  He’d wanted to place pickets in Hannibal and the other systems between Terra Nova and Pegasus, in hopes of attacking the British Fleet Train, but the Prime Minister had vetoed the plan.  As long as there was hope of a peaceful solution, he’d be reluctant to take the gloves off ahead of time.

“Which will give the British time to mass their forces and take the offensive,” he said.  “They’ll get to choose the time and place of the first engagement.”

He finished skimming the files and sighed again.  There was a second carrier in Vesy, but he didn't dare bring her through to Pegasus for fear the British would take the offensive towards Cromwell instead.  It wouldn't change the balance of power, he was sure, yet it would be embarrassing.  He needed to keep his forces in place to react quickly to any British moves.

And they may be capable of jumping one of our carriers, he thought.  That would even the odds quite sharply.

He keyed his terminal, sending the files to the intelligence staff.  They’d go through them, teasing out all the nuggets of information and making educated guesses about which ships the British would add to their task force.  Not, he knew, that it would matter.  They’d probably be able to track the British once they entered Hannibal ... unless, of course, the British decided to take the war to the Indian worlds instead.  It was quite possible.

Shaking his head, he looked down at the display.  The troops were still landing on Clarke, setting up a whole network of defences.  If the British took the offensive, they’d get a bloody nose; it was possible, quite possible, that they wouldn't even realise the danger until they got too close to avoid the mass drivers.  Civilised nations disliked them, but the war had removed all taboos concerning their use.  A single hit would be enough to cripple a carrier beyond repair.  

“And if they do recognise the trap,” he mused to himself, “they will still have to spring it if they wish to recover their territory.”

He rose to his feet.  The command staff would have to be briefed, now they knew there would be war.  They’d have to dust off the contingency plans, update them as best as they could and then place their forces in the best position to repel attack.  And earmark ships for later raiding, if the British took the offensive.  Knocking out the British supply lines would make winning the war easier.

Of course, he reflected as the hatch hissed open in front of him, they will feel the same way too.

***
“I think this compartment is safe,” David Majors said.  “They certainly haven’t bothered to look into it.”

“You think this compartment is safe,” Doctor Sharon Henderson echoed.  “Are you sure?”

“There’s no such thing as surety,” Lillian said.  She’d been surprised to be invited to the covert meeting, but she supposed there weren't many others with genuine naval experience on the colony.  “If the bug sweep turned up nothing ...?”

“It didn't,” Majors confirmed.  He wasn’t an electronics expert, but he’d admitted to serving a term in the Royal Signals during the war.  “However, the Indians may have developed something new.”

“They could be listening through the datanet,” Sharon said, nervously.  “We’re not spies.”

“I took the precaution of isolating this sector,” Majors reassured her.  “The Indians have installed monitors in the datanet, true, but they won’t actually be able to peer into this compartment without actually reconnecting the system.  We’d know if they did.”

“And what will happen,” Sharon asked, “if they catch us?”

“They said it themselves,” Lillian said.  “We’ll be treated as insurgents, who can be shot on sight - perfectly legally.”

“So we keep our heads down and wait for the navy,” Sharon said.  “Getting involved now might be pointless.”

“The problem is that the navy will need intelligence,” Majors said, tartly.  “Like ... what are the Indians doing on the surface?”

“They’re building defences,” Lillian said.  She scowled in bitter memory.  “I’m not sure what they are, but I overheard two of the guards talking about being able to hit ships in orbit.”

“That would make them mass drivers,” Majors said.  “Unless they have managed to solve the problem of creating a plasma containment field that lasts for more than a few seconds.”

“Mass drivers seem more logical,” Lillian said.  “Combined with an orbiting sensor network, they could seriously upset anyone trying to approach the planet.”

“Right,” Majors said.  “Is there anything we can do about them?”

“Not now,” Lillian said, after a moment’s thought.  “They don’t seem to care about us going outside, but they sure as hell object to us going anywhere near their fortifications without permission.”

“They had you driving a vehicle for them,” Majors said.  “Are they going to keep expanding the colony?”

“I believe so, but it’s still nowhere near their positions,” Lillian said, flatly.  “And they may be planning to wait until the end of the war.”

Sharon leaned forward.  “Can’t you sneak a signal into the communications net?”

“I doubt it,” Lillian said.  “They took over the entire command network the day they arrived.”

“We’d find it very hard to insert a signal without the new command codes,” Majors agreed, softly.  “One of you could try to seduce the local commander ...”

Sharon bunched a fist.  “Are you serious?  I’m a doctor, not Mata Hari.”

“I don’t think the Indians would be seduced,” Lillian said, quickly.  “They rarely spend time with any of us, save for when they’re issuing orders.”

“True,” Majors agreed.  “Could one of us sneak out of the colony?”

“You’d have to survive on your own,” Lillian said.  “I don’t see how you could do it ...”

“Take a tractor,” Sharon suggested.  “Strip the life support system, then destroy the rest of it so they find nothing, but wreckage.  It wouldn't be the first time there’s been an accident that caused an explosion.”

“And even if you did,” Lillian added, “what then?”

Majors shook his head.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “I just ... I just hate being helpless!”

Lillian understood, but she also knew that the Indians were firmly in control.  The colonists had no weapons, no secure access to the datanet and no control over the life support.  And even if they did manage to throw the Indians out, the orbiting starships could simply bombard the moon from orbit, flattening the colony into rubble.  It might be neat to get someone outside the colony, to fake his death so the Indians had no idea he was on the loose, but what would be the point?  None of them were soldiers!

“I think the only thing we can do is gather information and hope there will be a chance to use it,” she said, finally.  She wished, suddenly, that she’d paid more attention in the brief Conduct After Capture course, although it hadn't been designed for living under enemy occupation.  They had a moral duty to resist, if they could, but how?  “The Royal Navy will be coming, I’m sure.”

Sharon snorted.  “And what if it doesn’t?”

“Then we get to decide if we want to stay here under their rule or go somewhere else,” Lillian said.  She rose to her feet as her watch beeped an alert.  “I have to go.”

“We’ll meet up tomorrow; same time and place,” Majors said.  “See what you can glean from their supplies.”

Lillian nodded and hurried from the room, heading through a maze of stone corridors and up a flight of stairs into the engineering section.  The Indians had searched it thoroughly, then placed a guard at the hatch; the guard eyed her coldly before stepping aside to allow her to pass through and into the giant compartment.  She picked her environment suit off the wall, pulled it on over her shipsuit and checked the telltales before heading out to where the tractors were waiting.  A pair of Indian officers stood next to one, waiting for her.  

Shit, Lillian thought.  Did they know she’d been talking with others, discussing ways and means to resist?  She felt a cold pit in her stomach, yawning wider as she approached the Indians.  No one had been executed - yet - for insurgency, or even passive resistance, but the Indians would have every right to kill her if they knew what she’d done.  No one was tolerant of insurgents these days.  What do they want?

“You’ll be transporting pallets from the shuttles today,” one of them said.  “Get them over to the dumping ground and leave them there.”

“Understood,” Lillian said.  She was tempted to offer to take them further, but they might have smelled a rat.  So far, no one had done more than the bare minimum to help, despite quite a few inducements.  “I’ll get on my way.”

She climbed into the tractor, allowing herself a moment of relief as the hatch slammed down and the engine hummed to life.  The Indians hurried backwards as she turned the tractor around and headed for the airlock, which opened at her approach.  She linked into the outside communications grid, informing the command centre that she was leaving the colony, then smiled as the airlock closed behind her.  The second hatch opened a moment later, revealing the frozen terrain beyond.  No matter what was happening behind her, it still took her breath away.

Clarke, an immense blue-green orb, hung in the sky, utterly dominating the surrounding landscape.  She’d heard that some people had problems living on Io or another of Jupiter’s moons because of the Great Red Spot, but she’d never really believed it until living on Clarke III.  Clarke was an awe-inspiring sight; the Great Red Spot, however, would look like an enormous red eye glowering down on anyone below it and reminding them of just how tiny they were, against the vastness of the universe.  She smiled at the thought, then forced herself to look at the ground as she gunned the tractor forward.  The vehicle hummed to itself as it crawled over the snow towards the Indian shuttles.

They looked very like British designs, she noted, although there were quite a few more of them than she’d expected.  She parked the tractor next to the closest and waited for orders, then watched as a handful of suited men transferred pallets from the shuttle to the rear of the tractor.  None of the pallets were marked by anything apart from a number; the Indians, she assumed, had decided not to take the risk of labelling them in English or Hindi.  The tractor lurched back to life as soon as the Indians were ready, transporting the goods towards one of their new installations.  They’d set up something quite close to the colony, yet several of their other installations were much further away.  She tried to see what it was as the tractor drew closer, but no matter how she stared it was impossible to be sure.  

Maybe it is a mass driver, she thought.  She’d seen the giant mass drivers on the moon, the ones that kicked buckets of raw materials to Earth, but there was no reason why a mass driver on Clarke had to be so large.  Technology had advanced since the moon had been settled in 2050.  And if it is, they could hit anything they can see.

She pushed the thought aside as she stopped the tractor and waited for the Indians to unload her cargo.  They didn’t seem too interested in chatting with her, something that surprised her more than she cared to admit.  The marines on Warspite had always flirted with her and any other attractive female crew.  But then, none of the Indians seemed interested in socialising with the British colonists.  She had a feeling they’d been warned to keep themselves strictly to themselves. 

Her radio buzzed.  “Thank you,” an Indian voice said.  “You may now return to the shuttles.”

Lillian sighed, but did as she was told.  There was no escaping the fact that it was collaboration, at least in some form.  It was quite likely she’d be in trouble if she ever returned home ... apart, of course, for whatever consequences there were for breaking her parole.  And yet, she was spying on them ... if, of course, she had any way to get the information to anyone who needed it.  She looked up, tracking the lights in the sky; one of them was an Indian carrier, but the others?  Might one of them be a British ship?

Probably not, she thought, as a new flight of shuttles swooped overhead and landed near the colony.  The Indians chased the tin-cans out of the system.

It was nearly two hours before she was finally told to go back to the colony and pass the tractor to someone else.  Lillian headed back and headed towards the communal showers, where she washed herself as quickly as possible.  Water wasn't exactly scarce on Clarke, but the plumbing was nowhere near complete.  And besides ...

She looked up as Sharon entered the shower compartment, a towel wrapped around her.  The doctor tapped her lips before Lillian could say a word, then lifted her eyebrows.  Lillian shrugged, expressively.  She’d learned nothing of any use.

“There have been a handful of new patients in sickbay,” Sharon said, as she started to wash herself thoroughly.  “Indian workers with minor injuries.”

They’re moving fast, Lillian thought.  She knew from experience that working fast tended to lead to more accidents, although Clarke’s atmosphere tended to make them worse.  They must be expecting trouble.

Oddly, the thought made her feel a great deal better.