A Savage War of Peace

(Ark Royal, Book V)

Christopher G. Nuttall

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Cover by Justin Adams

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All Comments Welcome!

Cover Blurb

On her maiden voyage, HMS Warspite discovered Vesy, a world populated by primitive aliens, aliens whose culture had already been twisted and warped by human refugees from the First Interstellar War.  Now, Captain John Naiser and his crew spearhead a diplomat mission to the alien homeworld, hoping to ease them into the galactic mainstream.

But with hundreds of others hoping to influence and shape the developing alien culture, and all hell threatening to break loose as human ideals meet alien realities, events on Vesy might just mark the start of a new interstellar conflict ...

... And a civil war that will tear the human sphere apart.

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

Author’s Note

As always, comments, spelling/grammar corrections and suchlike are warmly welcomed.  I trade cameos in exchange for all such suggestions.

CGN

Prologue (I)

From: Professor Scott Nordstrom, Dept. Of Xenobiology, Edinburgh University
To: Admiral Percy Finnegan, First Space Lord
Subject: The Vesy, Political Implications
Classification: Top Secret, Eyes-Only UK

Admiral.

As per your request, the Department has composed a long report based on our analysis of the reports from HMS Warspite.  Data was, of course, limited; neither Warspite’s crew nor the Russian refugees (or their slaves) were trained observers, let alone alien research specialists.  However, our conclusions have been filed and forwarded to you and the working committee.

That said, there are certain political implications that must be brought to your attention.

We believe the Vesy are not, by any definition of the term, a threat to humanity.  As far as can be determined from the orbital observations of their homeworld and the limited studies conducted on the ground, they were at roughly 1400s-level when contacted by the Russians and literally had nothing more advanced than swords, pikes and spears (they had invented the wheel).  The Russians introduced gunpowder and, perhaps more importantly, human-style military tactics and political institutions, but nothing that could allow the aliens to pose a threat to their colony, let alone the rest of the human sphere.  It is, of course, impossible to be sure just how quickly they would develop, with the knowledge that certain technologies are possible.  We believe, however, that we will have around 200 years before the Vesy start experimenting with crude rockets, assuming they remain isolated from the rest of the galaxy.

I do not believe they will be permitted to remain isolated for long.

Their system represents a treasure trove for human exploration, research and development.  It is well known, thanks to the World Court hearings in Geneva, that their system possesses no less than seven tramlines, three alien-grade.  As the Vesy lack both a unified planetary government and a space-based presence of their own, they are literally unable to prevent human factions (or the Tadpoles, for that matter) from passing through their system at will.  Furthermore, studies of the Vesy themselves (and a biosphere that is very different from Earth’s) may bring huge rewards to the nations and corporations that start long-term research programs.  Indeed, their viewpoints on technology may suggest new ways to expand and refine our own technological development, in much the same way as direct contact with the Tadpoles helped us to progress around perceived roadblocks and develop new technologies.  There may be a considerable demand for Vesy researchers to work in human labs; if not now, then soon.

This will, obviously, lead to charges of exploitation.  We have already seen demands, most notably from the Friendship League, that we should basically start a massive knowledge transfer program to assist the Vesy in learning to use modern technology.  Many such NGOs have already committed themselves to preventing human exploitation of the Vesy.  Others have seen their living conditions, which may be described as primitive, and insist that it is our duty - the so-called ‘Human Race’s Burden’ - to uplift the Vesy, on the grounds we know better than themselves what is good for them.  Given that the basic tests determined that the general level of Vesy intelligence was comparable to human intelligence, it is unlikely they will take such a condescending attitude in good part.  They may be primitive, but they are not children.

However, the introduction of relatively minor pieces of technology by the Russians caused a considerable amount of upheaval in their society.  Introducing everything from modern medicine and weapons to computers and starships would turn their society upside down, literally.  Their system of government would probably be shattered, all the more so if human social ideas are introduced.  We might see disasters along the lines of Cortez’s invasion of the Aztec Empire, the Pakistani Uprising or even the European Winter.  

Ideally, we should make no further contact with the Vesy.  No matter how well-intentioned, contact between an advanced society and a primitive one is often disastrous for both.  The former becomes smug and arrogant, confident in its own superiority; the latter falls apart or collapses into a society-wide depression and inferiority complex.  I do not believe, however, that humanity will leave the Vesy alone.  Even if the British Government bans all further contact with the aliens, the remainder of the world’s governments may have other ideas (and, of course, our NGOs will demand action and involvement in ‘assisting’ the Vesy).

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

Prologue (II)

The bunker was buried ten miles below Delhi, so deep that nothing short of a major asteroid strike could hope to disturb the bunker and its inhabitants.  There was no chance, General Anjeet Patel knew, of any outsiders being able to spy on the nerve centre of Indian Government, not given the sheer level of security built up around the bunker.  The government could muster its forces, direct its military and hold secret diplomatic discussions, all in total secrecy.  Indeed, it was hoped that hardly anyone outside India even knew of the bunker’s existence.

He stopped outside a mirrored door and waited, knowing he was being observed, his body scanned for bugs, implants and other surprises.  His face looked back at him; dark skin, a short neatly-trimmed beard, a green uniform and a dagger hanging from his belt, a tradition the Indian military had adopted during the Age of Unrest, when an attack could start at any time.  There was a long pause, then the door hissed open, revealing a barren conference compartment.  It was empty, save for a table, a set of chairs, a drinks machine and a holographic projector.  He stepped inside and saluted as the Prime Minister came into view.

“Prime Minister,” Anjeet said.

“General,” Prime Minister Mohandas Singh said.  “Welcome to the lair.”

He tapped a switch and the door hissed closed behind Anjeet.  “Take a seat,” he added, briskly.  “We don’t have much time.”

“Yes, sir,” Anjeet said.

He sat down and took a moment to study the Prime Minister.  Singh was an old man, having served in the government for most of his adult life, but his mind was clearly as sharp as ever, despite the calamities that Earth had suffered over the past decade.  Who would have believed that there was such a thing as aliens?  Who would have believed that a powerful interstellar race would wage war on humanity?  Even now, with a second alien race known to exist, Anjeet still had trouble getting his head around it.  The once-boundless immensity of space, just waiting for human expansion, now seemed confined and restricted.

“I assume you’ve read the classified reports from Vesy,” Singh said, without preamble.  “The existence of a second alien race offers us an unexpected opportunity.”

“Yes, sir,” Anjeet said.

“The Great Powers,” Singh added, “are seriously considering declaring the entire system under quarantine.  This is not, of course, acceptable to us.”

Anjeet nodded, bitterly.  India had done well to survive, when the Age of Unrest had washed over the planet, but she hadn’t kept up with the Great Powers.  Britain, France, America, Russia, China ... they’d dominated the march into space, then the quest to settle as many worlds as possible.  They’d set the rules and, deliberately or otherwise, they’d made it almost impossible for any of the smaller powers to match their expansion.  The sheer mass of power they’d accumulated for themselves made them the masters of the universe.

But the Great Powers had been weakened, badly.

India had fought in the war, of course, fought on the human side.  But India had had fewer ships and fewer colony worlds and so the Great Powers had taken the brunt of the conflict.  It hadn't taken long for the Indian Government - and the other nations that bitterly resented being relegated to second-class status - to see how this situation could be turned to their advantage.  For the first time in fifty years, there was a very real chance of catching up and surpassing the Great Powers.  

They still have more ships, but most of them are old, Anjeet thought.  We have newer ships built with technology we learned from the Tadpoles.  The balance of power may even be in our favour.

“It is critically important that we weaken the bonds between the Great Powers,” Singh continued, “and Vesy provides a unique opportunity to drive a wedge between them.  The Russians are already crippled; a dispute over the finer points of interstellar law can only make matters worse for the Great Powers.  Their alliance was not exactly based on mutual trust and respect.”

Anjeet smiled.  The Chinese and Americans had almost gone to war twice, before the Tadpoles had materialised out of the depths of space to wage war on humanity.  It wouldn't take much to set them at each other’s throats, at least outside the Sol System itself.  No one really wanted to violate the Solar Treaty, not now.  There was simply too much at stake ... and besides, the Solar Treaty actually worked in India’s favour.  How long would it last, he asked himself, when the Great Powers realised they’d tied their hands behind their backs?

“The first part of your mission is simple,” Singh told him.  “You are to do whatever is necessary to take control of Vesy, preferably by working with alien factions on the ground and assisting them to secure their grip on the planet.  Our long-term objective is to enter into an alliance with the Vesy, one that will be upheld by the body of international law that has developed since we started our advance into space.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Anjeet said.

He smiled, coldly.  If half the reports were true, the Vesy were in a permanent state of war - and the Russians had made matters worse by introducing everything from gunpowder to metalworking and human military tactics.  It would be simplicity itself, particularly with the aid of the Russian files, to find a faction that wanted human assistance.  And once that faction was firmly allied with India, they’d have the weapons and supplies they needed to conquer the entire planet.

“The second part of your mission is much more complex,” Singh continued.  “When the time comes, you will take the first steps in forcing the Great Powers to grant us - and our allies - a seat on the table.  Your orders have already been prepared for you, General.  Ships have been assigned to your command.  All you will need to do is open your sealed orders and proceed as planned.”

Anjeet took a breath.  He’d taken part in the planning sessions, when the original scheme had been conceived and developed.  The Vesy hadn't changed much, he knew; their existence merely serving as the trigger for a confrontation that could see India raised to the ranks of the Great Powers or plunged down into a second Age of Unrest.  It was always hard to predict which way the Great Powers would jump, after all, and if they all allied against India ...

But Russia is already broken, he thought, coolly.  China and France licking their wounds after the war.  That just leaves Britain and America ... and their allies.

“I understand, Prime Minister,” he said.  “When do I leave?”

“As soon as possible,” Singh said.  “And good luck.”

Anjeet nodded.  He’d need it.

Chapter One

“Go,” the coordinator ordered.

A single starship - a light cruiser - hung in front of the observers, illuminated by the pulsing light of a holographic star.  Suddenly, a dozen starfighters appeared out of nowhere, spinning down towards their target.  The cruiser brought its point defence online and opened fire, spewing out thousands of bursts of plasma fire at the starfighters as they closed in.  One by one, they vanished from the display until only a couple survived to launch their missiles at the cruiser.  Both missiles were picked off before they had a chance to do any harm, then one of the remaining starfighters was vaporised.  The sole survivor turned and fled into the endless darkness of space.

“Simulation complete,” the coordinator said.  “Victory; Blue.”

Captain John Naiser sucked in his breath as the handful of military officers watching the display started to babble amongst themselves.  He’d been a starfighter pilot, back before the war, and he’d never seen any cruiser defend itself so effectively against a conventional swarm attack.  But then, neither had the human pilots who’d fought in the Battle of New Russia, where the entire Multinational Fleet had been obliterated by the Tadpoles.  They'd been caught by surprise - no human fleet had been able to put out so much point defence - and never had a chance to recover.

“The starfighter is doomed, I believe,” Admiral Yeager Soskice said.  The head of the Next Generation Weapons program rose to his feet as the room lightened, his face glowing with triumph.  “There is simply no way a swarm of starfighters can punch through the defences of a capital ship, not now.”

John felt his eyes narrow as he peered at Admiral Soskice.  The man was a genius, of that there was no doubt, but he’d never seen action in his life.  And he was the man who had foisted an unqualified XO on Warspite, when she’d left the Sol System on her mission to Pegasus.  There was a very real danger that Soskice and his followers believed their own simulations, while any experienced officer would have known that real life was rarely so cut and dried.  What would happen, he asked himself, if the cruiser’s sensors weren’t so effective at tracking incoming starfighters?  Or if the ship’s plasma cannons overheated in combat and exploded, depriving the ship of some of her point defence?

“The simulation was rigged,” Vice Admiral James Montrose Fitzwilliam said.  “You deliberately slanted the advantages in favour of the cruiser.”

“The simulation was not rigged,” Admiral Soskice snapped.  “I programmed it to reflect the tactical realities ...”

“As you see them,” Admiral Fitzwilliam cut him off.  “I don’t think real life is so cut and dried.”

He muttered orders to the coordinator, who hastily reprogrammed the simulation.  The lights dimmed as the simulation reset, then the starfighters zoomed down towards their target for the second time.  John watched, feeling a pang of bitter regret, as they zipped from side to side, making it impossible for the cruiser to target them with any real accuracy.  Nine starfighters survived long enough to salvo their missiles at the cruiser, four missiles survived long enough to strike home.  The cruiser disintegrated in a blinding series of explosions.

“Target destroyed,” the coordinator said.  “Victory; Red.”

“That simulation was rigged,” Admiral Soskice said, sharply.  “Change enough variables and even you could win.”

“The variables change constantly, depending on the situation,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said.  “I will happily concede that, under ideal circumstances, the plasma cannons make life hairy for starfighter pilots.  That’s what happened at New Russia, after all.  But Ark Royal and her flyers managed to adapt to the new threat and deal some pretty effective blows against the Tadpoles.  The day of the starfighter is not yet over.”

John smiled, feeling a flicker of admiration.  Admiral Fitzwilliam had been Ark Royal’s XO, then her commanding officer, during the war.  He would have gone down with the ship if he hadn't been badly wounded at Alien-Prime and sent home to muster reinforcements.  Since then, he’d commanded the MNF that patrolled the border between human and alien space, watching for signs the uneasy truce was about to come to an end.  Unlike Admiral Soskice, no one could say he didn't have any experience.

And he served under Theodore Smith, John thought, wryly.  He wouldn't have stayed on Ark Royal if he’d been incompetent.

“We must advance our own weapons and defences to ensure that we can never be caught by surprise again,” Admiral Soskice insisted.  “Your ... fixation with the glory days of the starfighter is holding us back.”

“I believe there are very real dangers in advancing forward too far, too fast,” Admiral Fitzwilliam countered.  “You have read Superiority?”

John - and most of the other officers in the compartment - nodded.  The short story had been required reading at the Academy, even though not all of them had agreed with its premise or the outcome.  One interstellar power had thrown its resources into developing newer and better weapons of war; the other had continued to build the same old starships and weapons, even when the first power accomplished some remarkable achievements.  But the newer weapons and innovations had never quite worked out in practice and there had been no time to get the bugs out.  The first power, which should have won the war handily, had suffered a humiliating defeat.

“We are not talking about taking a new device and sticking it on every ship in the Royal Navy,” Admiral Soskice said.

“But you are talking about cutting starfighter squadrons and redirecting resources to smaller ships,” Admiral Fitzwilliam pointed out.  “We still have a need for starfighters and fleet carriers, Admiral.  And we cannot assume that we should cut a whole spectrum of weapons systems because conditions for deploying them are no longer ideal.”

John sighed, inwardly.  The hell of it was that both admirals had a point.  Starfighter pilots had taken the brunt of losses during the war - John had heard that only ten percent of the Royal Navy’s pre-war pilots had survived the fighting - and most of them had died because the Tadpoles had changed the rules.  But, at the same time, humanity’s starfighters had managed to adapt and fight back.  The starfighters hadn't been remotely useless.

“We are not the only ones developing new weapons and tactics,” Admiral Soskice said, coldly.  “The Americans, the French, the Chinese ... they’re all working on developing new weapons they can use against the Tadpoles - or us!  We should not allow ourselves to become complacent!”

“We’re not becoming complacent,” Fitzwilliam said.  “The problem is introducing newer technology without causing major problems or accidentally creating new weaknesses in our ships and defences.  Like Warspite’s first cruise.”

John cursed under his breath as all eyes turned to him.  “Warspite lost power when she jumped through a tramline,” Fitzwilliam continued.  “How many other problems would be caused by a failure to anticipate the demands of real life?”

Admiral Soskice glowered.  “Captain Naiser, just what happened when Warspite lost power?”

Asshole, John thought, crossly.  He’d known the admiralty was divided between those who wanted to experiment with newer weapons and those who wanted to rely on tried and tested technology, but he hadn't wanted to get caught in the middle.  Is there an answer I can give that will satisfy both of you?

“A problem developed that would have been caught, if there had been more time to test the drive,” he said, smoothly.  There was no point in going over the full details, not now.  One of the people responsible was dead and the other trapped on Pegasus.  “I don’t believe it proves or disproves either of your positions.”

Admiral Fitzwilliam’s eyes narrowed.  “Explain,” he ordered.

John winced, inwardly.  When would he learn to keep his mouth shut?

“Warspite should have had several weeks to run proving trials before leaving the Sol System,” he said.  “That would have given us the time to catch all of those problems, as well as testing the tactical systems under combat conditions.  We would have been able to integrate the newer systems into both the ship herself and the crew’s awareness of just what they can do.”

He took a breath, then went on.  “There’s nothing wrong with newer technology,” he added, slowly.  “But we need to test it thoroughly, to see how it works in combat and discover the flaws, before we can integrate it fully into our tactical planning.  In this case” - he waved a hand towards the holographic simulation, which had frozen just after the cruiser exploded - “the first encounter with plasma cannons was a nasty fright and the enemy scored a victory, but we adapted our tactics to compensate.  It would be unwise of us to rely solely on plasma weapons to defend our ships.”

“Indeed,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said.  “Do go on.”

John had the uneasy sense he was being allowed to gather rope to hang himself, but he pressed on regardless.  “Starfighters also do more than merely strike at other capital ships,” he continued.  “They do long-range recon, dog-fighting with other starfighters and a number of other tasks.  There is no reason to remove every starfighter from the fleet just because the rules of the game have changed.  They may change again tomorrow.”

“They will change again,” Admiral Soskice said.  “Change is the one constant in the universe.”

He nodded towards the simulation, sharply.  “As a starfighter pilot yourself,” he added, “how would you handle such a situation?”

“Keep moving randomly,” John said.  “Use decoys and drones, if I had them; spoofing software and ECM, just to make it harder for the enemy to target me.  All tactics that we used against the Tadpoles.”

“Thousands of starfighter pilots were killed,” Admiral Soskice said.

“They knew the risks,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said, cuttingly.  “We all know the risks.”

John grimaced as Admiral Soskice glared at his nemesis.  It was a non-too-subtle reminder that Admiral Soskice hadn't seen any real action, not outside simulators.  And simulators could be altered to tip the balance in favour of one side or the other, if someone was prepared to take the time to try.  God knew there were hundreds of trainees who enjoyed flying down the Death Star trench in the simulator, pretending to be Luke Skywalker or Darth Vader, even though it wasn't particularly realistic.

“Five years ago, we were taught that our technology was not the best in the universe,” Admiral Soskice said.  His voice was under tight control.  “Since then, we have struggled to catch up with an enemy who showed a remarkable skill in producing newer weapons and tactics at terrifying speed.  We dare not allow them to get past us again.”

“And I say, again, that we are not opposed to new technology,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said.  “We are just opposed to rewriting doctrine and decommissioning whole weapons systems because of the latest shiny thing.  And that is what you are planning to do.  You want us to stop building fleet carriers and starfighters and concentrate on small cruisers.  Which is all well and good, until we run into a threat that requires fleet carriers and starfighters to handle!”

They’re both right, John thought.  Assuming the Tadpoles hadn't started building their superdreadnaught until they’d run into Ark Royal, they’d put a colossal starship into service in less than a year.  Given that it took humanity five years to build a fleet carrier from scratch, it was not a pleasant thought.  The Tadpoles might be quietly rebuilding their fleet and developing newer weapons even now.  But neither of them will admit the other has a point.

He listened as the argument raged backwards and forwards, neither Admiral conceding a point.  It was deeply frustrating, as well as worrying, that the tension had actually exploded into an argument in front of a small army of junior officers.  The First Space Lord had told him, before Warspite had left Earth for the first time, that the disagreement between the two sides was already affecting operational readiness, but he hadn’t really believed it was so bad.

You should have known better, he reproved himself, as he glanced wistfully at the hatch.  Several smaller arguments had broken out between various junior officers, all of whom looked prepared to bicker like children for their superior officers.  Military protocol seemed to have gone out the airlock.  You had to relieve your XO because she was utterly unsuited to the post.

His wristcom bleeped.  “Captain Naiser,” a voice said, “report to the First Space Lord at 1500.”

John glanced at the time - it was 1430 - then made his way towards the hatch, which hissed open at his approach.  Behind him, the argument had gotten louder; he sighed in relief as he stepped through the hatch and it closed behind him, cutting off the sound.  Outside, a dark-haired woman was waiting, wearing a Commander’s uniform.  John smiled, despite himself, as he recognised Juliet Watson, Warspite’s former XO.  Unlike other officers who had been effectively demoted, she didn't seem to bear any resentment.

“Captain,” she said.  She definitely looked happier, now she was in the labs on Nelson Base, rather than a cruiser in deep space.  “It’s good to see you again, sir.”

“Thank you,” John said.  Someone had evidently been coaching her in social graces; absently, he wondered who and why.  “It’s good to see you again too.”

“I’m just waiting for the Admiral,” Juliet said.  “Is he going to be long?”

“They’ve probably started throwing chairs and tables by now,” John said.  He couldn't help being reminded of a bar fight he’d been caught up in at Southampton, years ago.  “Is it anything important?”

“Just to brief him on the progress of our latest experiment,” Juliet said.  “There should definitely be a way to generate a tramline from scratch.”

John frowned.  “Isn’t that meant to be highly classified?”

Juliet shrugged.  John snorted, inwardly.  Admiral Soskice’s inexperience was showing; Juliet should have been assigned to a lab somewhere in deep space, rather than a warship or even Nelson Base.  It was a great deal more secure than the Admiralty on Earth, true, but there were still too many officers and crewmen with low-level security clearances passing through the space station.  And Juliet herself would have been happy with a large computer, a simulator and a handful of trained minions to help her with her research.

“I need to visit the First Space Lord soon,” he said, instead.  “You’ll probably have to wait for the Admiral.  Do you want to wait in the officers’ lounge?”

Juliet nodded, vaguely.  They walked along the corridor and through a large metal hatch. Into the officers’ lounge.  It definitely looked nicer than anything set aside for enlisted personnel, John decided; one wall bulkhead covered with medals, while another held a large portrait of the King and Princess Elspeth.  A third held a porthole that showed Earth rotating below the giant station.  A steward materialised from behind the bar, datapad in hand, ready to take their order.  John ordered tea for himself; Juliet hesitated, then ordered water.  The steward bowed and retreated.

“I heard from Mike,” Juliet said, as they waited for their drinks.  “He was asking if I wanted to meet for drinks.”

John concealed his amusement with an effort.  Mike Johnston was Warspite’s Chief Engineer ... and one of Juliet’s few supporters on the ship.  It was alarmingly clear he was sweet on her, something that would have upset the Admiralty if they’d ever found out about it.  John rather doubted that anything had happened, but it was another sign that Juliet had been completely unsuited for her post.  On the other hand, he had to admit, she would probably have had more trouble if she hadn't had Johnston’s support.  Very few people would have risked pissing off the Chief Engineer.

“You should,” he said, finally.  The steward returned and placed two mugs in front of them, then retreated behind the bar.  “It would do you good to get out of the lab for an hour or so.”

Juliet smiled, vaguely.  “That’s what they told me when I was sent to your ship,” she said.

“I suppose they would have done,” John said.  He’d always hated being told that suffering was good for his character, if only because he doubted it was true.  “You’ve been doing better here?”

“There aren’t so many distractions here,” Juliet said.  “I can keep poking away at the problems that interest me, without having to worry about anything else.”

And as long as you stay productive, the Royal Navy will be happy to take care of you, John thought.  He’d heard all sorts of rumours, most of which were unbelievable, about just how carefully the Royal Navy looked after its tame geniuses. And if you do come up with a way to create a tramline, they’ll remember you longer than Einstein or Tesla.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, instead.  “Are you going to see Mike?”

Juliet blushed like a schoolgirl.  John couldn't help thinking she looked pretty, even though he played for the other team.  It was hard to imagine her having a serious relationship with anyone, but maybe it would be good for her.  She simply wasn't very experienced at relating to other people; indeed, she preferred machines to her fellow humans.

“I might,” she said.  “I don’t know.  When are you leaving the system?”

“I don’t know yet,” John said.  Warspite had been held at Earth for six months, since her return from Vesy.  He’d spent most of the time defending himself against various admirals, all of whom seemed intent on second-guessing every decision he’d made.  “I think the First Space Lord might be about to tell me.  I’ll let you know so you can make up your mind about going for drinks.”

“Thank you, sir,” Juliet said.  “I’m supposed to remain here for the foreseeable future.”

“We won’t be,” John predicted.  He glanced at his wristcom, then rose.  “I have no doubt something is about to change, yet again.”

Chapter Two

“Bloody protesters,” the driver swore.

Ambassador Joelle Richardson leaned forward as the government car turned the corner and almost ran into a mob of protesters blocking the gates to Downing Street.  She’d heard reports of protests, but she hadn't really believed them, not since large parts of London had been rendered uninhabitable by the alien bombardment.  And yet, there were clearly two groups of protesters marching up and down in front of the centre of British Government; one carrying signs demanding access to Vesy, the other demanding that British resources be lavished on Britain, rather than alien scum.

She sucked in her breath as a line of policemen worked to clear enough of a path through the crowds for the car to reach the gates.  Political protest was far from unknown in Britain, even after the bombardments, but there was an edge to the protests that worried her.  The British population hadn't felt truly threatened since the Troubles, since all hell had broken loose on British streets; now, with large swathes of the country in ruins, it looked as though the public was torn in half.  She hoped - prayed - that both protest movements weren't much larger than they seemed, because if they were ...

It could be the end of us, she thought, bitterly.  Hundreds of thousands of people had been displaced by the bombardment, their homes destroyed by tidal waves; no one really knew for sure just how many people had been killed outright.  No government could take the risk of sending aid to foreign countries, let alone non-human creatures.  It could lead to civil war.

She peered at the nearest signs as the crowds parted to allow the car to pass.  One read HELP OUR STAR BROTHERS, while another read GET THEM BEFORE THEY GET US and NO BLOOD FOR VESY.  Joelle sighed, then glanced at a third sign.  NO MORE DEAD CHILDREN.  A fourth read DOWN WITH THIS SORT OF THING.  She puzzled over what it meant for a moment, then put it aside.  It probably wasn't important. 

The car passed through the gates and came to a halt outside Ten Downing Street.  Joelle braced herself as the driver opened the door, breaking the soundproof seal and allowing the two intermingled chants to reach her ears.  It was hard to be sure what they were saying - both groups were shouting loudly enough to deafen an elephant - but she was quite sure that everyone in the area could hear the racket.  They’d definitely know the protesters were upset about something.

She sighed to herself, then picked up her briefcase and walked through the door into Ten Downing Street.  Silence fell as the door closed - she allowed herself a moment of relief - then passed her briefcase to a uniformed officer waiting just inside the door.  He took it, waved a scanner over her body, then motioned for her to pass through the inner door, where a young man dressed in a pinstripe suit was waiting.  Joelle nodded to him - she recognised the Prime Minister’s latest assistant from the news - and allowed him to lead her up a flight of stairs and down a long corridor.  Ten Downing Street might look like a small house from the outside, but inside the old houses had long since been merged together.

“It must be a relief to move back here,” she said, as they passed a long series of portraits, each one showing a previous Prime Minister.  “I thought it would be longer before Downing Street was reopened.”

“The PM was insistent that we move back as soon as possible,” the aide said.  “He thought it would demonstrate the resilience of the British Government.”

Joelle frowned, inwardly.  She had her doubts; London wasn't what it had been, any more than the rest of the country.  And yet, she had to admit it was a powerful symbol.  Britain was a country firmly rooted in the past, in a history that was long and richly detailed; returning to the very roots of parliamentary democracy was a sign that all would return to normal.  But after the bombardment, and the discovery of alien life, was anything ever truly going to be normal again?

Her briefcase was waiting for her as they walked into the antechamber.  It would have been searched by a security officer cleared for classified materials, although in truth there was little inside that wasn't public knowledge.  The week she’d spent in Geneva, before being recalled, was already the subject of endless discussion on the planetary datanet, as well as hundreds of programmes discussing the pros and cons of working together to confront the Vesy.  Not that the Vesy really needed confronting, it was true.  In the end, talks had floundered on the very simple fact that the Vesy were no threat to humanity.  Or, for that matter, to the Tadpoles.

The aide checked his wristcom.  “The PM is currently on the hot line to Washington,” he said, shortly.  “Do you want a cup of tea to catch your breath before you enter his office?”

“No, thank you,” Joelle said.  “I can wait.”

She looked at herself in the mirror, hanging from one wall.  Her long brown hair fell down over a pinched face, one that showed too much of her age.  The suit she was wearing was tailored to showcase both professionalism and her femininity, a subtle message to rogue states that should know better, by now, to show any disrespect to a British Ambassador.  Her lips twitched in droll amusement as she remembered some of the more interesting moments of her long career.  There was definitely something to be said for agitating the rulers of states which regarded women as second-class citizens and kept them trapped in ignorance and slavery.  

It might not be very diplomatic, she thought, as the aide’s wristcom bleeped, but it needs to be done.  We no longer need to pretend that such states are actually important.

The aide opened the door and showed her into the Prime Minister’s office.  Joelle smiled as Prime Minister Steven Goodwill rose from behind his desk to greet her, then held out her hand for him to shake.  He looked tired, compared to the man she’d met briefly before her assignment to Geneva, but grimly resolved to move ahead, whatever the cost.  It was an attitude, Joelle thought, that suited him in his role.

“Prime Minister,” she said.  “Thank you for recalling me.”

The Prime Minister smiled.  “Things keep changing, as you know,” he said.  “Did you manage to get a few days of holiday?”

“Yes, thank you,” Joelle said.  The Foreign Secretary - her immediate superior - had told her to take a few days off to relax, but not to leave the country.  It hadn't been hard to deduce that she was either in trouble or they had a new assignment for her.  “I ended up going to Edinburgh for a few days of rest and relaxation.”

“There are fewer places to go for a rest these days,” the Prime Minister said, dryly.  “Too many beaches utterly destroyed; too many lives completely ruined.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Joelle said.  

It was true, she knew.  A proper holiday was a luxury afforded to few these days, not when most of the cheap holiday destinations had either been destroyed or turned into refugee camps.  Even going to Edinburgh had made her feel vaguely guilty.  But she had the feeling she was about to earn her vacation.

“And I trust you have nothing preventing you from leaving Earth?”  The Prime Minister asked.  “No lover?  No long-term commitments?”

“No, Prime Minister,” Joelle said.  In theory, she could be sent well away from Earth at any time and she would just have to suck it up.  But, in practice, the Foreign and Commonwealth Office understood that a distracted ambassador was an ineffective ambassador.  But it had been years since she’d had more than a quick fling with anyone.  Her work ensured she rarely had time to meet anyone on a personal basis.  “I’m as free as a bird.”

“Good,” the Prime Minister said.  “We have a job for you.”

He sat back down and motioned for her to sit facing him.  “You will, of course, be familiar with the talks in Geneva,” he said, once she’d taken her seat.  “Tell me; what are your impressions?”

Joelle took a moment to organise her thoughts.  “There isn't going to be any international consensus on how to proceed,” she said, carefully.  “The Vesy don’t represent a threat to us, so the Solar Treaty doesn't come into play.  I don’t think there will be any agreement to leave them strictly alone, Prime Minister.  It’s much more likely that everyone else is going to make a bid for power.”

“Probably,” the Prime Minister grunted.  He cleared his throat.  “Do you have any other thoughts?”

“Several parties were suggesting, quite seriously, that we destroy the Vesy now, before they can become a threat,” Joelle said.  “I think such suggestions need to be shot down as quickly as possible.”

“That might be difficult,” the Prime Minister said.  “Planning to commit genocide would have been unthinkable, five years ago.  But now, with the damage the Tadpoles did to Earth fresh in everyone’s memory, it may be hard to keep politicians from putting it forward as a serious option.”

“Earth First,” Joelle said.

“They’re not the only ones,” the Prime Minister said.  “There are quite a few groups out there proclaiming the need for human unity in the face of alien threats ... and extreme measures against such alien threats.”

He sighed, loudly.  “But that’s not why I called you here today,” he continued.  “The failure to come to any sort of agreement on a joint approach to the Vesy, even just leaving the planet completely alone, has led to a major problem.  Everyone and his dog is currently trying to make their way to Vesy, from governments intent on trying to secure influence among the aliens to NGOs and religious groups keen to influence the development of Vesy civilisation - and, perhaps, steer it in a human-approved direction.  I’ve been trying to stop them, but I have little authority outside the British Commonwealth.  It has led to a rather nasty political argument.”

Joelle remembered the demonstrators and frowned.  “They want to help the Vesy,” she said, thoughtfully.  “The protesters outside, I mean.”

“Yes, they do,” the Prime Minister said.  “We could keep a lid on it, Ambassador, if we had the agreement of the other Great Powers.  As it is, we won’t be able to prevent them from heading to Vesy for much longer.  They’ll cause no end of damage to the local civilisation ... which they wouldn't actually consider a disadvantage.  By our standards, the Vesy are barbarians.  Primitive barbarians.”

“We have barbarians on Earth too,” Joelle pointed out.

“We gave up nation-building a long time ago,” the Prime Minister said.  “Let them redeem themselves, we said, or remain forever in squalor.  The Vesy, on the other hand ... it’s easier, somehow, to see them as children in need of help.”

He took a breath.  “There’s another problem, of course,” he added.  “The tramlines.  Vesy holds no less than seven tramlines, including one that leads to Pegasus.  Whoever controls the Vesy System will be in an excellent position to dominate the surrounding systems for the foreseeable future.  Simple common sense tells us, Ambassador, that just about every nation on Earth is going to try to take control.  They’ll cut whatever deals they have to cut with the Vesy to gain control.”

“The Vesy will be cheated, Prime Minister,” Joelle said.

“Almost certainly,” the Prime Minister agreed.  “Although, seen from their point of view, even relatively primitive human tech would be a marvel.  A working painkiller alone would be worth billions to them ... coming to think of it, so would something that suppresses their mating scents, allowing their women to enter the workforce in large numbers.  But the point is we cannot allow others to gain an advantage.  We need Vesy allies of our own.”

“We may end up with another Terra Nova,” Joelle said.  “A planet without the united government or the firepower to enforce its control over the tramlines.”

“That would be better, from our point of view, than having a single power in control of the system,” the Prime Minister said.  He shrugged, expressively.  “Not that everyone will agree, of course.”

Joelle considered it.  “We can't claim rights of first discovery?”

“I don’t think we can reasonably claim to have beaten the Vesy to their homeworld,” the Prime Minister said, dryly.  “Besides, it was a rogue Russian ship that stumbled over Vesy, not us.  The Russians don’t have the strength to back up their claim, but they’re trying hard to leverage it to gain advantage elsewhere.  I’ve been hearing rumours about them talking to the Turks and the Indians, perhaps even the Brazilians.”

“The Indians have a colony in that direction,” Joelle recalled.

“They do,” the Prime Minister said.  “It adds another problem to the morass.”

He cleared his throat.  “I’m assigning you as our Ambassador to Vesy and Special Representative to the other human powers active within the system,” he explained.  “You will have authority to open discussions with the Vesy and trade with them, although there will be some limits on precisely what you can offer.  Ideally, you are to tie as many Vesy groups as possible into an alliance with us.  We need influence on the planet’s surface.”

Joelle remembered the reports and winced.  “We could just offer them weapons,” she said, frankly.  “It would make them our friends for life.”

“I’d prefer not to supply weapons if it can be avoided,” the Prime Minister said.  “The Russians caused a great deal of problems for them, simply by introducing gunpowder.  I would hate to see them trying a mass charge against machine guns or even soldiers armed with modern rifles.  Their population might take a sharp drop.”

“They will want weapons, Prime Minister,” Joelle said, flatly.  “It won’t be unlike negotiating with groups in North Africa or the Middle East.  Weapons come first, or they won’t be able to hold on to whatever else they get.”

“I know,” the Prime Minister said.  He looked her in the eye.  “If you have no alternative, then yes; you may offer them weapons.  However, it would probably look better if you offered them other items first.  We have a list of possible options for you to consider, although - as the person on the spot - you will have to make the final call.”

Joelle couldn't help feeling a flicker of excitement, mixed with apprehension.  On Earth, she could call her superiors at any moment to get their approval; in deep space, she would be completely alone, unable to receive an instant answer to her messages.  If she sent a message from Vesy to Earth, if she needed support, it would be months before she could receive a reply.  Before then, the situation would probably have changed for the worse.  

“Thank you, Prime Minister,” she said.

The Prime Minister gave her a humourless smile.  “You may want to wait before thanking me,” he said.  “This won’t be an easy task.”

He frowned.  “In addition, you are to try to build a local agreement with any other human powers operating within the system,” he continued.  “Again, ideally, we want limits on tech transfer and a general understanding that the system is to remain neutral.  I don’t think anyone will accept the idea of limits, but I think there will be some support for leaving the system neutral in human politics.”

“Because that would give us all access to the tramlines,” Joelle said.

“Without having to pay,” the Prime Minister agreed.  

Joelle nodded, thoughtfully.  The Tramline Treaty enshrined open passage through the tramlines, but agreed that whoever owned the system was owed a small fee from anyone who wanted to use the tramlines.  However, precedent suggested that whoever owned the system had to be capable of policing their space before they could collect their fee.  Terra Nova’s inability to patrol space beyond its atmosphere was a constant headache for the diplomats, all the more so as other settlements within the system continued to grow.  Sooner or later, Joelle considered, one of them would make a definite bid for system ownership - and marginalise Terra Nova once and for all.

“We could always try setting up a bank for them,” she mused.  “Have the fee saved until they’re ready to access it for themselves.”

“It’s a possibility,” the Prime Minister said.  “But who would you trust to run it?”

“The Vesy themselves,” Joelle said.  It was the simplest solution.  “They’re not idiots, Prime Minister.  We could educate them, couldn't we?”

“And what,” the Prime Minister asked, “would that do to their society?”

He shrugged, then leaned forward.  “You will be attached to a naval squadron being dispatched within a fortnight,” he informed her.  “You may choose your own staff - under the circumstances, I think that’s the least we can do for you.  The squadron CO will have orders of his own, but will generally follow yours as long as they don’t put the ships into danger.”

Joelle nodded.  She would need to read the orders very carefully, then sit down with the CO and have a long talk.  She’d known some naval officers who’d regarded diplomats as worse enemies than reporters; she hoped, grimly, that whoever was assigned to Vesy wouldn't be one of them.

“Good luck, Ambassador,” the Prime Minister said, rising to his feet.  “Your orders and supporting documents will be delivered to your office within the hour.  I believe you will be invited to board the ship in ten days, but that will be confirmed.  We’ll try not to leave you behind.”

“Thank you, Prime Minister,” Joelle said, smiling at the weak joke.  It was one hell of a challenge - and if she succeeded in hammering out an agreement everyone could live with, she would be able to write her own ticket.  “I look forward to it.”

Chapter Three

“Captain Naiser,” the First Space Lord said, as John was shown into his office.  “I trust you had a pleasant few days?”

“Sin City no longer lives down to its reputation, sir,” John said.  It was no surprise.  The original Sin City had been destroyed during the Battle of Earth.  “But at least no one recognised me there, thankfully.”

“There is that, I suppose,” the First Space Lord said.  “Take a seat, please.”

“Thank you, sir,” John said.  

He sat on the comfortable chair, resting his hands in his lap.  The First Space Lord’s aide appeared and offered tea or coffee, but John declined them both.  He’d need all of his wits around him while talking to the uniformed head of the Royal Navy.  The First Space Lord waited for the hatch to hiss closed behind his aide, then nodded politely to John.

“I understand that you were attending the simulated battles,” the First Space Lord said, casually.  “As someone who both flew starfighters and commanded capital ships, what did you make of them?”

John hesitated, thinking hard.  Was the First Space Lord trying to break the ice, as if he needed to break the ice, or was it a genuine question?

“I think that both sides rigged the simulations in their favour,” he said, finally.  “The starfighter squadrons shouldn't be counted out just yet, sir.”

“Explain,” the First Space Lord ordered.

“Real life isn't the same as simulations,” John said.  “To be realistic, the simulation would need to account for sensor distortion caused by the plasma cannons, the loss of several cannons due to exploding plasma containment fields and the existence of various countermeasures to fuck ... ah, spoof ECM.  One simulation was, therefore, an idealized outcome for the point defence; the other was an idealised outcome for the starfighters.”

He paused.  “We may need to rely more on smaller carriers, perhaps armoured escort carriers, rather than the giant fleet carriers,” he added, “while putting together superdreadnaughts of our own.”

“The Vanguard project,” the First Space Lord noted.  “Admiral Soskice’s pride and joy.”

“Yes, sir,” John said.  He’d been asked to consult, during the months he’d waited in limbo for a decision on his future in the Royal Navy.  “She’s an impressive design, sir, but she will wallow like a pig in mud.  And she would be alarmingly vulnerable to mass drivers, despite her improved armour.  The Tadpole superdreadnaught wasn't perfect either.”

“It still took a giant carrier ramming her to put her out of commission,” the First Space Lord said.  “Both ships were destroyed in the blast.”

“Yes, sir,” John said.

He felt a sudden stab of sympathy for the First Space Lord.  The man was caught between the traditionalist and reformist parties; one wanting to adopt the latest shiny thing, the other wanting to stick with technology they knew worked.  But both sides were wrong ... keeping the balance between them couldn't be the easiest job in the world.  It made him wonder just what would happen to the Royal Navy when the First Space Lord retired.

“But that is a minor issue at the moment,” the First Space Lord said.  He sat upright, elbows placed on the desk in front of him.  “I didn't call you here to discuss the simulations - and how well they reflect real life.”

John nodded.  It was finally time to face the music.

“Good news first,” First Space Lord said, briskly.  “The World Court in Geneva has provisionally agreed that you are not culpable for anything the Russians did on Vesy, particularly before you ever knew there was such a world.  Your own actions caused more doubt, but it has been generally agreed that you did the best you could under the circumstances.  As such, you don’t need to worry about either a court martial or war crimes charges from Geneva.”

“Thank you, sir,” John said, relieved.  He hadn't worried about a court martial - any Captain’s Court would have upheld his decisions - but the World Court was a political beast.  Guilt or innocence wasn’t a matter of fact, not when politics were involved.  Someone in London might have had to do a great deal of horse-trading to ensure a favourable verdict.  “That’s good to hear.”

“There were a couple of attempts to bring private prosecutions against you,” the First Space Lord added, “but the House of Lords threw them both out.  It helps, I suspect, that the image of the gallant space captain rescuing helpless women and children is so prevalent.  They didn't want to convict a national hero.”

John kept his mouth firmly shut.  It was unlikely that anyone could successfully bring private charges against him for carrying out his duty, not when military officers were generally excluded from such proceedings.  But it would be bad publicity for the Royal Navy and he suspected his superiors had privately breathed a sigh of relief when the decision was handed down.  Having an NGO or charity try to convict him of meddling in alien affairs would be embarrassing.

“The Russians may want you to give testimony at the trial of the surviving renegades, John,” the First Space Lord added, “but we would prefer to see you out in space as soon as possible, so they may be disappointed.   In any case, there is more than enough evidence to convict them of desertion, breaking several treaties and causing the Russian Government a considerable amount of embarrassment, which is a shooting offense in Russia.”

“Yes, sir,” John said.  

“I would still prefer you to remain on Nelson Base or Luna City until you return to your ship,” the First Space Lord said.  “The court rulings will probably not satisfy all of your new enemies, I’m afraid.  At last report, the Society of Interstellar Brotherhood was offering a large reward for evidence that could be used against you, while the more militant wing of Earth First has publically condemned you for not bombarding Vesy into radioactive ruins and exterminating the aliens before they could pose a threat.  They will not be happy to hear about your new assignment.”

John narrowed his eyes.  “Can they prevent me from returning to Earth?”

“Probably not, but it will attract attention from the media,” the First Space Lord said.  “I authorised you to visit Sin City because the media is permanently banned from the complex, no matter the situation.  Earth ... it’s quite likely you will be hounded as soon as you step out of a military base.  I advise you to avoid that sort of attention.”

John sighed inwardly, but nodded.  The media had swarmed over him once before - the last survivor of HMS Canopus, before Ark Royal had returned with a captured alien battlecruiser in tow - and he hadn't enjoyed it, not even slightly.  Now, with half the population considering him a hero and the other half demanding his immediate execution, it would probably be worse.  Much worse.

“Yes, sir,” he said, finally.

“Good,” the First Space Lord said.  “I’m afraid your next posting will make the Society of Interstellar Brotherhood even more pissed at you.”

He smiled, rather thinly.  “You may have heard that talks about keeping Vesy in strict quarantine have broken down,” he continued.  “The Russians tried to insist they had a claim to the system, the Indians flatly refused to honour an agreement that cut them out of a quicker route to their colonies, the French and Chinese started considering which way to jump ... right now, in short, there is no legal barrier to anyone going to Vesy and trying to make contact with the natives.  This is likely to be utterly disastrous for them, Captain.”

“Yes, sir,” John said.  He’d seen Vesy - and he’d seen the damage caused by a handful of Russian-supplied weapons.  Even if the Vesy were cut off from all further human contact, they knew how to make gunpowder and everything from basic muskets to cannons.  The slaughter on their homeworld would rise rapidly until their society managed to integrate the new weapons.  “They don’t need our encouragement to slaughter one another.”

“It gets worse,” the First Space Lord said.  “The Brothers” - the Society of Interstellar Brotherhood - “were barred from trying to communicate with the Tadpoles.  No one in their right mind wanted the Brothers lecturing the Tadpoles about how their reproductive systems are dangerously immoral, not when the Tadpoles could easily have won the war.  It would be a really stupid reason to restart the war.”

“Yes, sir,” John said, again.

“However, it has made the Brothers more determined to approach the Vesy and start transferring technology to them,” the First Space Lord warned.  “Not all of the Brothers are keen to supply weapons, but medical science and building materials will do real damage to their society in the short term.  The influx of human ideas and ideals will probably do worse damage.  They’re not human, they’re not men in rubber suits, but I don't think the Brothers grasp that point.  And they may succeed in turning the Vesy into a threat to humanity.”

“Sir,” John said doubtfully, “the Vesy aren't much more advanced than ... than the Elizabethans.  Even gunpowder was unknown to them five years ago.”

“They will have the advantage of knowing that more is possible,” the First Space Lord said, darkly.  “Our most optimistic assessment suggests that the Vesy might start experimenting with primitive rockets in four hundred years, perhaps less.   It would depend on just how much technology - and ideas - have already slipped into their system.  If the Brothers actually start guiding the Vesy down the right path, they might get into space in a much shorter time.”

“It seems unbelievable, sir,” John said.  

“We would prefer not to take chances,” the First Space Lord said.  “Unfortunately, with a lack of general consensus on the issue, it is impossible to prevent other nations from making contact with Vesy factions and working with them to take control of the entire planet.”

He leaned forward.  “You will return to Warspite, Captain, as CO of the squadron assigned to Vesy,” he continued.  “Unfortunately, this is something of a poisoned chalice.  On one hand, you have orders to prevent cultural contamination, either with ideas or technology; on the other, you are required to support Ambassador Richardson as she makes contact with Vesy factions and attempts to woo them into an alliance with Britain.”

John frowned.  The only way to woo Vesy factions was to offer them more than anyone else, particularly to the factions which had little to no contact with humans prior to the arrival of Warspite.  And they would want weapons to defend themselves before anything else, no matter what other goodies the humans could offer.  Failing to give the Vesy weapons would practically throw them into the arms of other human powers, the ones less concerned with the long-term impact on the Vesy themselves.  They would have no choice, but to act in self-defence.  

And yet, handing over weapons and other goodies would cause cultural contamination ...

“I don’t see how we can balance the two requirements,” he said, slowly.  It seemed impossible to avoid it.  “Mere contact with us will cause cultural contamination.”

“I don’t think you can either,” the First Space Lord admitted.  “Overall, we would prefer you to block the NGOs from setting up shop outside our direct control, Captain, but we concede that won’t be easy.  They think they have a mission and they won’t let you stand in their way.”

“So let them set up where they can be supervised,” John mused.  “Maybe ensure that they know they can talk to the Vesy, but if they give offense they can be yanked out at any moment.”

He groaned, inwardly.  The Vesy were aliens.  Who knew what would cause offense?  Hell, for all they knew, wearing pink shirts would be enough to trigger a declaration of war.

“Precisely,” the First Space Lord said.  “They want contact; they can have it, under supervision.  That will make it harder for them to claim we’re blocking them from talking to the poor helpless aliens.”

John shrugged.  “I saw them butchering one another with a fervour that would impress Genghis Khan,” he said, tartly.  “I don’t think they’re helpless.”

“They might as well be, against orbital bombardment,” the First Space Lord said.  He sighed, meaningfully.  “NGOs and the media aren't the only parties interested in going, John.  The Vatican is sending a ship, as are a number of religious factions from America.  Hell, the Archbishop of Canterbury is planning to dispatch a ship too.  They hope to find new converts among the Vesy, it seems.”

“Shit,” John said, remembering the religious war the Vesy had been waging.  Humans hadn't killed so many of their own kind in the name of religion since the Age of Unrest.  “That’s going to end badly, sir.”

“Probably,” the First Space Lord agreed.  “The Vesy may take strong offense to being told they’re worshipping false gods.  And not all of the factions sending ships are trustworthy either, not now.  They may start dropping thunderbolts from high orbit if the human god isn't worshipped at once.”

He paused.  “And the hell of it is that we have only limited authority to intervene,” he added, darkly.  “Try and get those factions to work from the base on the surface, Captain.  It would make it easier to pull them out if the shit hits the fan.”

“Aye, sir,” John said.  He had a sneaking suspicion he should have asked for the court martial instead.  He’d escaped one session in front of the World Court, but he might not get so lucky the second time.  “The Vatican would presumably have diplomatic immunity ...”

“Presumably, but you have authority to override it if they’re working from a British base,” the First Space Lord said.  “It will be a long time before anyone truly trusts the Vatican again.”

John nodded, slowly.  It wasn't his area of expertise, but he knew just how badly the Vatican had squandered a considerable amount of goodwill just before the Age of Unrest.  There were still states that had laws allowing them to peer into the church’s activities, just to make sure they weren't trying to cover up more sexual scandals and financial malpractice.  Hell, there were laws in Britain allowing any religious group to be watched, if they seemed likely to pose a threat to the state.  Being too trusting had led directly to the Troubles.

The First Space Lord tapped his keyboard, activating the holographic projector.  “You will have Warspite, John, and a pair of older destroyers to serve as escort,” he said.  “The Ambassador and her staff will travel on Warspite, which will allow you to confer with her about the best way to proceed.  Attached will be five freighters crammed with potential trade goods and prefabricated garrison components, as well as HMS Stuart Tootal.”

John blinked.  “I’m getting 3 Para?”

“And two additional sections of Royal Marines,” the First Space Lord said.  “Do try to keep them apart, when they’re not on active duty.  We can’t afford to keep replacing the bulkheads when they start fighting.”

He sighed.  “I’d prefer to send more, Captain, but we have too many other commitments at the moment,” he added.  “The PM has been talking to the Americans and French about a local alliance, but the Yanks are having an election year and the French, as always, are playing their cards close to their chest.  I’m pretty sure they’re looking for ways to gain advantage in the coming proxy struggle for Vesy.”

John nodded, grimly.

“If the shit hits the fan, try to secure the base on the surface and protect our personnel,” the First Space Lord concluded.  “Ideally ... well, the PM wants free access to the tramlines, but little else.  But we would prefer to avoid utterly shattering Vesy civilisation if it could be avoided.”

“I doubt it, sir,” John said.  “They’ve seen too many changes in too short a space of time.”

“We will see,” the First Space Lord said.

He glanced at his datapad.  “You’re expected back on Warspite in two days, Captain,” he added.  “By then, your official orders will be cut, along with a set of sealed orders you are to open if the shit really does hit the fan.  The ambassador will join you and your crew eight days later, giving you long enough to knock Warspite back into shape.  Until then ... go to Sin City or stay here, whichever one you please.  I don’t think we’ll need you before you return to your ship.”

“Aye, sir,” John said.  Returning to Sin City, finding a partner for a day or two and spending time in bed seemed a wonderful option.  But, on the other hand, he knew he’d be worrying too much about the coming ordeal.  Life had been much easier when he’d been a mere starfighter pilot.  “I think I’d be better off reading papers and doing my research.”

“There’s a whole crew of researchers going with you to Vesy,” the First Space Lord said.  “They were trying to hire a luxury liner for the trip, I believe, rather than endure passage on a warship.  Anyone would think they didn't like it.”

“It is an acquired taste,” John agreed, deadpan.  He well remembered cramped quarters on HMS Canopus ... although Colin and he had never complained.  “I have been told it compares favourably to going to jail ...”

“Not these days,” the First Space Lord said.

John nodded.  Prisoners these days were sent to work gangs, where they worked six days a week in the Reclamation Zones.  It wasn't a pleasant task and the reoffending rate had dropped sharply, or so he’d been told.  There just weren’t the resources to keep prisoners penned up indefinitely, not any longer.  The truly serious criminals were simply hung and then buried in unmarked graves.

“You’ll find out soon enough, I wager,” the First Space Lord said.  “Good luck, Captain.”

John rose, recognising the dismissal.  “Thank you, sir,” he said.  “I won’t let you down.”

Chapter Four

“There she blows, sir,” the pilot said.

John nodded, leaning forward as HMS Warspite slowly came into view.  She was definitely sleeker than the pre-war frigates and cruisers the human navies had used to picket systems and escort the giant fleet carriers, but her dark hull was studded with weapons and sensor blisters.  She looked almost like a flattened arrowhead, he recalled, her dark armour providing protection against everything short of heavy plasma cannons or laser warheads.  Or a direct nuclear hit.  The heavy plasma cannon at her prow seemed to glow with deadly light.

“I can fly you around her, if you wish,” the pilot said.

“I’ve already seen her,” John said, a little wistfully.  No matter how many times he was shuttled to Warspite, he would never see his command for the first time again.  “Take us to the airlock.”

The pilot nodded, then cut speed as the cruiser grew and grew until she dominated the horizon.  John braced himself, half-expecting a collision, but there was only a dull thud running through the craft as the shuttle latched on to the airlock.  He smiled to himself as he felt the gravity wobble, then rose to his feet as the airlock hissed open.  It was impossible to escape the sense that he was coming home.  He picked up his duffle bag, slung it over one shoulder and stepped through the airlock, back onto his ship.

“Captain,” Commander Howard greeted him.  “Welcome back.”

“Thank you, Commander,” John said.  “And I congratulate you on your well-deserved promotion.”

“Thank you, sir,” Howard said.

John allowed himself another smile as they walked towards the bridge.  He hadn't expected to be able to keep Philip Richards after they returned to Earth, not when his appointment as XO had only ever been temporary.  But he had no doubts about Howard’s competence - or, for that matter, of his ability to handle the crew.  If nothing else, Juliet Watson should have been disqualified for her inability to discipline her subordinates.

“There’s a full briefing for you in your terminal, sir,” Howard said, “but basically we’re at full fighting readiness.  Armed and dangerous, ready for a scrap.”

“We may need to be,” John said.  He’d spent two days reading intelligence reports and they’d all agreed that everyone was setting course for Vesy.  Three British warships and a troop carrier wouldn’t be enough to control the chaos, even if they held undisputed rights to the system.  “And the new tactical officer?”

“I knew her from Sidney Smith as the assistant tactical officer, sir,” Howard said.  “She’ll fit in well, I think.  So far, her work on simulations has been perfect.”

As long as she doesn't freeze up when she faces actual combat, John thought.  He pushed the thought aside.  He knew Sidney Smith’s commanding officer and he wouldn't have allowed an incompetent onto his command deck.  She should do fine.

“Weapons loads are complete, sir; one hundred percent,” Howard continued.  “The bureaucrats don’t seem to have got in our way for once.”

“Glad to hear it,” John said.  He sat down in his command chair and hastily reviewed his two private monitors, then looked up.  “I relieve you.”

“I stand relieved,” Howard said.

He didn't look too happy, John noted.  Being promoted alone had been a heady responsibility, but he’d been in effective command of Warspite for the last month.  John wouldn't have blamed him for feeling a little resentment, not now someone else had come in and taken over command.  But then, Howard had known that John was the ship’s formal commanding officer.  He’d just have to deal with it.

“We’ll meet in my office for a proper chat in an hour,” John said, after a moment.  He’d need time to review the files to determine what, if anything, should be discussed.  “Until then, is there anything that requires my urgent attention?”

“No, sir,” Howard said.  “Chief Engineer Johnston has gone to Nelson Base, but he’s due back this evening.  The remainder of the senior crew are currently embarked; I’ve provisionally scheduled a dinner meeting for tomorrow evening at 1800.  We are currently lacking ten crewmen after they were hastily recalled to fill billets on Theodore Smith, but the Admiralty promised me that replacements would be found before our scheduled departure date.”

John groaned.  The war had left too many promising young officers and crewmen dead.  It would take years to replace the dead; even now, five years after the war, the Royal Navy was still short on trained personnel.  And getting newcomers just before they left could cause its own problems.  It wasn't unknown for commanding officers to offload problem cases rather than do the paperwork to arrange for a court martial or dishonourable discharge.  By the time Warspite’s officers discovered the problem, they might be light years from Earth and unable to do anything about it.

“Make sure I see their files before they’re transferred,” he said, reaching for one of his personal displays.  “Any problem children can be left behind, I think.”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said.  He cleared his throat.  “Midshipwoman Powell has requested a transfer to another ship, but so far no one has been willing to take her.”

“We’re too short of crew,” John said.  He didn't blame the poor Midshipwoman for wanting to leave.  She’d been forced to serve as a steward, to all intents and purposes, which had slowed her career down considerably.  And, even in this day and age, being unable to reach Lieutenant by twenty-five tended to suggest, very strongly, that the midshipman or woman was impossible to promote.  “Suggestions?”

Howard nodded.  “We have seven midshipmen, sir,” he said.  “Powell can be taken off the rota entirely, but the other six can handle the duties of a steward between them.  Unless, of course, we can get a couple of dedicated stewards.  We have to host the Ambassador and her party, after all.”

“That’s true,” John agreed.  “We should be able to take a pair of stewards with us, particularly if they’re cross-trained in something useful.  Put in a request at the Admiralty and see what you get.”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said.  “This may cause problems in the bunks, of course.”

“Tell them to suck it up,” John ordered.  He’d never been a Midshipman, but he’d had to deal with starfighter pilots being his equals one day and his superiors the next.  It wasn't an uncommon problem.  “They will be able to handle it, I am sure.”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said.

“And if they don’t, point out that Midshipwoman Powell did all the work on our last cruise,” John added.  He looked down at the deck.  “Speaking of which, find her something that will give her a chance at early promotion, should she do well.”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said, again.  He hesitated, noticeably.  “The only other issue is that Doctor Stewart has ... issued a formal warning note that you haven’t attended for your physical in the last seven months.  He’s insisting that you attend within the week or he will be forced to file a complaint with the Naval Medical Board.”

John fought down the urge to grit his teeth.  “You have pointed out to him that I was on Nelson Base for the last six months and I had a full physical when I returned to Earth?”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said.  “We all had the full physical.”

He shuddered.  John didn't blame him.  It seemed impossible for anything dangerous to spread from the Vesy to humanity - and vice versa - but the Naval Medical Board hadn't been inclined to take chances.  The entire crew had been checked and rechecked until the Board was satisfied that there was little risk of cross-species infection.  Having a routine physical check seemed pointless, compared to an extensive session of being poked and prodded by the best doctors in the business.  But it was also naval bureaucracy at its finest.  Someone would notice that the ship’s commander had no physical exam on file and demand explanations.

“I will see the doctor tomorrow, unless something comes up,” John promised.  He didn't have the time for a long battle with the Medical Board.  “I’ll let him know personally.”

“Thank you, sir,” Howard said.  He paused.  “With your permission, I have to review the latest tactical simulations ...”

“I’ll see you in an hour,” John promised.  

He settled back in his command chair and brought up the latest reports.  Howard had done a good job of keeping everything in order, even though he’d probably been snowed under with work.  Juliet Watson had been a poor record-keeper and Richards simply hadn't had the time to attend to paperwork.  But Howard had done well for himself ... John smiled coldly, then brought up the personnel reports and started to read.  Everything looked as well as could be expected when half the crew was on leave at any one time.

As long as they stay active when we leave the system, he thought, opening the file containing his orders.  Unusually, there were a distressing number of weasel words, rather than the curt sentences he was used to seeing.  Anyone could interpret these in any number of different ways.

He sighed, then started to read carefully.  It wasn't easy to follow the different lines of logic; the First Space Lord, if anything, had understated the problem facing him.  He was to ensure that Britain secured a controlling interest in Vesy - or that the local system remained neutral, allowing free passage - but at the same time he was to prevent cultural contamination by anyone.  And yet, he also had orders not to irritate the other human powers - or the Tadpoles, should they show interest in a third intelligent race.  He checked through the intelligence reports, but found nothing to suggest the Tadpoles might be coming too.  

They will know about the Vesy, he thought.  The treaty that had ended the First Interstellar War bound both parties to share information on any other intelligent races that might be discovered.  A note in the file stated that formal notification - and copies of the original reports from Vesy - had been sent six months ago, just after Warspite had returned home.  But will they want to do anything about them?

He shook his head, then looked up as the hatch hissed open, revealing a short woman with red hair cropped close to her scalp.  She blinked in surprise as she saw him, then hastily snapped to attention and saluted.  John rose to his feet and returned the salute, taking a moment to study the officer closely.  The uniform she wore marked her as a tactical officer, Howard’s replacement.

“Captain,” she said.  “Lieutenant-Commander Tara Rosenberg, reporting for duty.”

“Welcome onboard,” John said.  It would be her turn on watch, wouldn’t it?  Warspite might be operating with minimal crew while she waited in orbit around Earth, but Howard had clearly insisted that the senior crew still rotate watches.  Good for him.  “I’m Captain Naiser.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you, sir,” Tara said.  She looked embarrassed, but pressed ahead anyway.  “Is it true you actually went down to a planet and convinced a bunch of rebels to give up their hostages?”

John had to smile.  “Something like that,” he said.  It was true enough, but the rebels had realised they’d backed themselves into a corner first.  “We’ll have a chance to talk properly later, Commander.  You have the bridge.”

Tara nodded and saluted, again.  “Thank you, sir,” she said.  “I relieve you.”

“I stand relieved,” John said.

He stepped through the hatch and walked down to his cabin, located only five metres from the bridge.  It had been left untouched since his departure - the air smelt faintly musty when he stepped inside - but it definitely felt like home.  He glanced at an old picture of Colin he’d placed on the desk, then checked his appearance in the mirror and sat down at the desk.  It was almost time for Howard to arrive, so he read through a handful of additional files before the XO tapped on the hatch.

“Come,” John said.

Howard stepped into the cabin, looking amused.  “I just received an update from Engineer Johnston,” he said.  “Apparently, he won’t be back until tomorrow morning.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” John said.  Howard sent him an odd look - clearly, he hadn't realised that Mike Johnston was attempting to court Juliet Watson - then schooled his face back into bland inoffensiveness.  John concealed his own amusement and waved a hand at the sofa.  “Please, take a seat.”

“Thank you, sir,” Howard said, as he sat down.  “I understand you met Lieutenant-Commander Rosenberg?”

“She seems competent, judging by her record,” John said.  “But she only saw service towards the end of the war?”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said.  “There aren’t that many experienced junior officers at the moment.”

“Too true,” John mused.  “We really should work on bringing more mustangs into the ranks.”

He sighed, inwardly.  He wasn't precisely a mustang, but he knew that mustangs faced considerable hardships as they made the jump from being an enlisted crewman to an officer’s billet.  They were often more experienced than their fellows, who were normally quite a few years younger, yet they rarely fitted in socially.  The Old Boy’s Network that cast a long shadow over promotions boards didn't normally boost the careers of mustang officers.  It was often considered preferable to assist a junior officer with the right connections.

“She did handle herself well, sir,” Howard said.

“I know,” John said.

He cleared his throat.  “You seem to have done an excellent job,” he added, “so thank you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Howard said.

“I also expect you to speak your mind,” John added, after a moment.  He tapped the datapad meaningfully.  “I know that what gets written down isn't always the precise truth, but really ... I do need your uncensored impressions of everything from the crew to our orders.  It won’t be held against you.”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said.

John met his eyes.  “So tell me,” he ordered.  “Are there any problems I should know about that aren't in the reports?”

Howard looked back at him, evenly.  “The only real problem I have, sir, is that the crew have grown alarmingly used to inconsistent first officers,” he said.  His voice was very flat.  “Commander Watson largely left matters in the hands of department heads, who often didn't have the authority to deal with various problems; Commander Richards ... ah, Senior Chief Richards ... was a hands-on XO, but he often let himself get preoccupied with the small things, rather than the bigger picture.  I therefore found myself dealing with officers who thought they had to handle problems themselves and crewmen who thought they could come to me with anything.”

“Ouch,” John said.  He’d been an XO himself, but his predecessor had been a good man and a reliable officer.  “How have you been coping with this problem, which - I note - has never been mentioned in the files?”

“I held a long meeting with the department heads shortly after our return to Earth and outlined what I expected them to do and what I expected them to forward to me,” Howard said.  “There was some dispute - they’d grown used to the extra authority - but I managed to handle it.  I also spoke with the Senior Chief and worked with him to both maintain my distance and support crewmen who needed advice and a helping hand.”

“Very good,” John said.  He’d discuss the matter with Richards later, he knew, but it sounded good.  “What problems have the crew had?”

“The usual, sir,” Howard assured him.  “A couple of outbreaks of drunkenness, after alcohol was smuggled up from Sin City.  A nasty little fight between two crewmen that put one of them in sickbay and the other in the brig; I’ve had them both handed over to the redcaps for long-term investigation and punishment.  And one incident of a crewwoman using a hacked pleasure implant and nearly killing herself.”

John winced.  “How did you handle the drunkenness?”

“Both crewmen were put on punishment duty,” Howard said.  “I didn't feel they deserved to be busted, but they needed to feel some punishment for nearly killing themselves.  The crewwoman has been remanded to Luna City for psychotic observation and evaluation.  I don't think she will ever be able to return to active duty.”

“Probably not,” John agreed.  He’d have to read the notes, but if someone was stupid enough to hack a pleasure implant it was quite likely they’d accidentally kill themselves.  The crewwoman had been lucky, for a given value of luck.  She might spend the rest of her life hopelessly addicted to the sensation of having her pleasure centres triggered, time and time again.  “But keep an eye on it anyway.”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said.  He paused.  “Is this normal? I mean ... all these problems ...”

“They tend to get worse when we spend months at anchor, doing bugger all,” John told him, flatly.  “Crewmen are at their best when there’s something to do; they’re at their worst when they’re stuck in the ship, while the pleasures of Sin City are only a shuttle flight away.  It’s why we try hard to keep them busy.”

He shrugged, then glanced at the datapad.  “I’m transmitting our orders to you,” he added, after a moment.  “We’ll discuss the problems we will face later, once you’ve had a chance to read them.  It won’t be an easy mission.”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said.  “I understand we will be transporting ambassadors.”

“One ambassador and her staff,” John said.  “And we’re going back to Vesy.”

“Hopefully, no Russians this time,” Howard said.

John snorted.  “Maybe not,” he said.  He’d glanced at the orbital monitors while he’d been on Nelson Base.  A number of ships had filed flight plans for Vesy - and several others had filed plans that were so vague that he suspected they too were heading to the newly-discovered alien homeworld.  “But everyone else is coming instead.”

Chapter Five

As a child, Corporal Percy Schneider rather suspected he would have loved Fort Knight.  It looked rather like a Wild West fort, complete with wooden outer walls, a handful of buildings just beyond the doors and a large Union Jack flying in the strange-smelling breeze.  But, as an adult, he was grimly aware that Fort Knight wasn't particularly defensible against anything more dangerous than Braves on horseback.  The ten Royal Marines - and thirty former Russian prisoners - wouldn't be able to put up much of a fight if the base came under attack.

But at least we could hold long enough to get the civilians out, he thought, although he knew the civilians wouldn't be able to stay away for long.  Vesy was an alien world, without any safe places for runaway humans.  And we would make them pay for attacking us.

He sighed, then walked towards the office they’d put together from prefabricated components borrowed from Pegasus.  The Vesy themselves admired the prefabricated buildings, but they’d been happy to take a few trinkets in exchange for building wooden cabins and barracks for the human settlers.  Percy had a feeling that the base would be expanded rapidly, once Earth heard about the existence of a second alien race; besides, paying the Vesy to help expand the facilities kept them sweet.  He was all-too-aware that there would be no help from any other human faction if the base came under attack.

“Corporal,” Platoon Sergeant Danny Peerce said, as Percy stepped up to the metal doorway leading into the office.  “The miscreants are inside.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Percy said.  “I’ll chew them out personally.”

“Just remember there aren't any replacements,” Peerce warned.  “You can't have anyone beached permanently - or dumped in the brig.”

Percy nodded.  They had an odd relationship; he might have been given command of the section, a ten-man team of Royal Marines, but Peerce outranked him - and had much more experience, to boot.  And yet, the Sergeant seemed content to treat Percy as a promising young officer who needed mentoring, rather than an outright subordinate.  Percy wasn't sure if his family name was working in his favour, or someone had seen promise in him he hadn't seen for himself, but it led to some awkward conversations.  It would have been harder if he hadn't had a sneaking suspicion that Peerce was actually enjoying himself.

It must be nice to mentor an officer you can relieve if necessary, Percy thought, as he stepped through the hatch.  Normally, it wouldn't be so easy to get rid of an over-promoted upper-class twit.

“Gentlemen,” he said, as Peerce followed him into the office and closed the hatch behind him.  “I trust you have an explanation for this?”

Private John Hardesty and Private William Oakley exchanged looks.  “We thought we wanted to spice things up a little,” Hardesty said, finally.  “They wanted to learn what we were doing ...”

“So you decided to teach the Vesy how to play Poker,” Percy said.  He had no idea if it was against regulations to teach aliens how to gamble, but he had a feeling it was probably covered by the non-interference edict.  Except, of course, for the simple fact that the non-interference edict had already been smashed to pieces by the Russians.  “And now the game is spreading through their society?”

“Yes, sir,” Hardesty said.  

Percy fought down the urge to rub his forehead in frustration.  The hell of it was that there was very little to do on Vesy, besides standing guard and talking to the aliens.  He couldn't spare the manpower to do building work, let alone exercises that might work off some of the growing boredom.  And there certainly weren't any available women - or men - to chase.  The former hostages were off-limits, even if they’d been interested.  He didn't really blame the two for looking for something else to do.

“Do you know,” he asked, “what this will do to them?”

“No, sir,” Oakley said.

“Me neither,” Percy said.  “It could cause a great deal of damage - and not just to them!”

He groaned, inwardly.  It was easy to see the Vesy getting into debt to a pair of humans - and trading gold or silver to pay off the debt.  He’d heard tales of men stationed in the Middle East who’d wound up in real trouble after taking bribes from the locals.  But it was also easy to see his men being corrupted and then manipulated into secretly passing information or technology on to the Vesy.  What would a Marine do when he owed the aliens more than he could reasonably pay ... and knew he would be in deep shit if his superiors ever found out?

“We are guests on their world,” he added, sharply.  “When you were gambling, what were you gambling for?”

“Chips,” Oakley said.  He sounded rather offended.  “We weren't gambling for money, sir.”

“And how long,” Percy asked him, “would it have stayed that way?”

It hadn't been that long since he’d been a mere private himself.  He still remembered gambling with his fellows on deployment ... and how easy it had been to wind up in debt, once they moved from gambling with matchsticks to playing for real money.  He’d learnt a sharp lesson after his first real game, when he’d been taken for a ride by an older and more experienced player.  It could easily have ended badly, with him owing most of his salary to the cardsharp.  There was one in every unit.

But eventually gambling for matchsticks loses its thrill, he thought, ruefully.  Because really, what’s the point of playing for matchsticks?

He pushed the thought aside and glowered at the pair of them.  Peerce had been right, as always; there wasn't much he could do to them.  They weren't on Earth, where they could be reassigned, or a starship where there was no shortage of miserable tasks to do for punishment duty.  He needed them both on the walls, just in case the shit did hit the fan.

“You will not talk to the aliens, at least until I am relieved by superior authority,” he ordered, coolly.  “You will remain in Fort Knight.  In addition, you will forfeit one week’s pay as a reminder not to gamble with big green men.  Do you accept my judgement?”

Hardesty opened his mouth.  “Sir, I ...”

Oakley elbowed him sharply, cutting off his friend’s response.  Percy silently blessed him; if the case had been heard by someone higher up the food chain, it was unlikely they would have gotten off so lightly.  They could request an appeal to a superior officer, if they wished, but it would probably have gone against them.  A superior might not be so inclined to understand the unique pressures of living on Vesy, surrounded by hordes of aliens who could turn nasty at any moment.

“We accept,” Oakley said, quickly.  “We won’t have any further contact with the aliens.”

“Glad to hear it,” Percy said.  He relaxed, slightly.  “You do realise that we almost lost the Russian base when the aliens attacked?  And that Fort Knight is flimsy in comparison?”

He waited for his words to sink in.  None of them had any illusions about just how long they could hold out, even with modern weapons.  They’d kill hundreds of aliens for every Marine, Percy knew, but they couldn’t hope to replace the bullets they fired, while the aliens had almost unlimited weapons and manpower.  The Vesy would just keep soaking up the bullets and pressing forward until they stormed the walls and overwhelmed the fort.

Or dig a tunnel underneath the base, he thought, sourly.  Or come up with a devious way of using our weapons against us.

“We cannot take the risk of provoking them into attacking us,” he added.  “A fight over gambling debts could easily have gotten out of hand, leading to an outright battle we could only lose.  Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Oakley said.

“Yes, sir,” Hardesty echoed, a little sullenly.  “I understand.”

“Then go,” Percy ordered, nodding to the hatch.  “I ...”

There was a sharp tap at the hatch.  Peerce opened it.  “Mr. Fanwood?”

“I was hoping to speak to the CO,” Fanwood said.  He was a tall bald man, wearing a pair of trousers and little else.   He’d been hastily assigned to Vesy from Pegasus, which had caused no end of problems as the engineers had been kitted out for sub-zero temperatures, not sweltering tropical heat.  “I have a final report for him.”

“Come in,” Percy said.  He glanced at Hardesty and Oakley.  “Dismissed, gentlemen.”

“Come with me,” Peerce ordered.  “Now.”

Percy watched him lead the two miscreants out of the office, then turned to Fanwood.  “What can I do for you?”

“We’ve got the generator and the last of the prefabricated buildings installed,” Fanwood informed him, cheerfully.  “Most of the crap we brought wasn't suited for an Earth-like planet, Corporal, but we managed to adapt it without problems.  In addition, there’s enough battery power and supplies to keep us going for at least two weeks.”

Percy frowned.  “I thought the idea was to keep us going for three.”

“Rubbish,” Fanwood said, in his best impression of Major Bloodnok.  “Whoever heard of a Fort Knight lasting three weeks?”

“When I get my hands on the person who insisted that the Goon Show made suitable entertainment in the mess,” Percy said, “I’m going to strangle him.”

Fanwood snickered.  “It’s a terrible pun,” he agreed.  “More practically, however, there are limits to what we could bring from Pegasus.  We may wind up dependent on food from the locals.”

Percy groaned.  The Vesy biochemistry wasn't entirely compatible with humanity’s, something that really shouldn't have surprised him.  Most of their food was safe to eat, but some tasted disgusting to humans and some was outright poison.  It wasn't something he wanted to rely on, if it could be avoided, yet there were limits to how much could be recycled in the base.  They might wind up buying food from the Vesy after all.

And if we do buy food from them, he asked himself, what will they want in return?

He was no diplomat.  No one on the base was a diplomat, because no one had anticipated running into an uncontacted alien race.  All he could do, when the aliens sent delegations to the base, was tell them that proper diplomats were on their way and that they would all be free to talk to them, when they finally arrived.  But with different alien factions having different ideas about how to deal with humanity, it was going to be one hell of a mess by the time the diplomats arrived.  Until then ...

We don’t have much we can trade to them, he added, mentally.  And anything we give them might wind up being used against us.

Fanwood cleared his throat.  “We might be able to start planting crops from Earth in the local soil, using the remains of the Russian farms, but it would probably have an impact on the local ecology,” he said.  “I’d prefer not to risk it here.”

“I understand,” Percy said.  No one would shed any tears for a weak planetary biosphere, consumed and ruined by an influx of plants from Earth, but Vesy was another matter.  Quite apart from the fact that crops from Earth might not take root properly, the ecological disaster they might cause would do untold harm to the Vesy themselves.  “Didn't the Russians do any impact work?”

“I rather doubt they cared enough to bother, even if they had the ability to try,” Fanwood said, darkly.  “There’s certainly nothing in their records to suggest they considered the impact on the local biosphere before scattering seeds into the fields.”

“Probably not,” Percy agreed.  

He shook his head.  “Is there anything else we can beg from Pegasus?”

“I doubt it,” Fanwood admitted.  “The base was intended to grow gradually, Corporal.  They weren't given a surplus of supplies before the original founding mission departed Earth.  It’s risky even passing as much as they have to Vesy; no matter what else happens, the colony program has stalled until they get replacements.  There’s little else they can spare without risking their own lives.”

“I understand,” Percy said.  “Their margin for error is growing alarmingly thin.”

“Too thin,” Fanwood agreed.  “And Pegasus is even less habitable than Vesy.”

Percy cleared his throat.  “Thank you,” he said.  “You and your men will probably be uplifted when the freighter returns, but until then ...”

“We were looking at ways to improve the local building industry,” Fanwood said, cutting him off.  “It wouldn't be hard to teach the Vesy how to make bricks and mortar, or even cement.  We have quite a body of outdated knowledge in our files that they would treat as manna from heaven.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Percy said.  

“You must admit they need it,” Fanwood countered.  “You've seen their living spaces!”

Percy nodded.  He’d seen a hidden village, buried in the forest, and the interior of a giant city that reminded him of ancient ruins in Mexico.  They’d both been filthy by human standards; the streets coated in layers of bodily wastes, despite the risks of disease, the Vesy themselves hardly bothering to wash when it wasn't raining heavily.  The medics suggested their immune systems were stronger than the average human immune system, something they needed desperately.  Their cities were breeding grounds for disease.  

“It wouldn’t be hard to show them how to build sewers,” Fanwood continued.  “Hell, the Romans had sewers!  Or even just to build gutters and wash the shit out of their cities for good.  Or ...”

“That problem may take care of itself,” Percy pointed out.  “They know how to produce gunpowder now.”

He held up a hand before Fanwood could say a word.  “I understand your feelings on the matter, sir, and I will pass your suggestions to the diplomats when they arrive, but right now we are not meant to interfere in their affairs.”

“We have already interfered,” Fanwood snapped.  “Our mere presence here is interference in their affairs!”

He was right, Percy knew.  The buildings just outside Fort Knight didn't belong to a single city-state; they belonged to representatives from every city-state for a thousand miles and traders who had come to see what the humans had to trade.  He’d told the Vesy they’d contacted first, months ago, not to interfere with the gathering of representatives, but he had a feeling it hadn't gone down very well.  The factions who had aided the human race clearly believed they had first right to any rewards.

And if we weren't here, he thought, grimly, they would be trying to kill each other by now.

It wasn't a pleasant thought.  Before the Russians had arrived, the Vesy had largely been grouped in city-states, not unlike Ancient Greece or Rome.  The Russians, by arming a particular faction, had introduced the Vesy to the concept of empire ... and, even after their defeat, several Vesy factions were trying to build their own empires.  It was impossible to monitor the locals to any great degree - Percy didn’t have the tools to keep an eye on them - but satellite observation revealed that a number of city-states were waging increasingly brutal wars against one another.  The influx of tools, gunpowder and a handful of human weapons had only made the slaughter worse.

“I would suggest you make your representations to the diplomats,” he said, curtly.  “This isn't the time to do anything that might upset one of the factions.”

“The factions might become upset because we haven't paid them for their services,” Fanwood offered.  “How do you plan to cope with that?”

Percy shrugged.  The Vesy would have to be insane if they attacked Fort Knight ... assuming, of course, that they comprehended the sheer scale of the Human Sphere.  There was literally nothing they could do against a single destroyer raining rocks from high overhead, as Warspite had proven in the final moments of the first Human-Vesy engagement.  But would they understand the danger?  The further away the city-states were from the battle, the more their inhabitants would believe the reports to be exaggerated.  They might not take the threat of retaliation from the stars seriously.

“There has to be something we can offer now, something that will keep them tranquil,” Fanwood insisted.  “Corporal ...”

“The decisions involved are well above my pay grade,” Percy said.  He was surprised he’d been left on Vesy at all, rather than his immediate superior.  And his orders were really nothing more than defend Fort Knight, look after the former hostages and wait for the diplomats - and reinforcements.  “I have no intention of making a bad situation worse before the diplomats arrive.”

“It's been six months,” Fanwood said.  “How long do you intend to stay here?”

Percy snorted.  “I suppose we could always walk home,” he said, sarcastically.  “You could always invent surface-to-surface wormholes if you have nothing else to do.”

He shook his head.  “I knew we would be trapped here for months,” he added.  “We didn't really have a choice.”

“Hah,” Fanwood said.

He nodded to Percy, then turned and walked out of the hatch, closing it firmly behind him.  Percy sighed, then looked back at his datapad, resting on the desk.  He had reports to write, even though there was little to say.  And, no matter what he said to Fanwood, there were times when he wondered if they’d been abandoned on Vesy.  It shouldn't have taken more than a couple of months for a ship to arrive from Earth.

They’re probably still bickering about what to do, he thought, as he picked up the datapad and started to type in his next report.  A whole new alien race ... they have to see opportunities here.  And while they’re arguing, we’re quartered safe out here.

He shook his head.  Whatever else could be said about Fanwood, the man was right about at least one thing.  Vesy might not remain safe for very long.

Chapter Six

“Rather cramped, isn't it?”

Ambassador Joelle Richardson did her best to ignore Grace Scott’s comment as she followed the young midshipman into the Officer’s Mess.  HMS Warspite was small, compared to the fleet carrier she’d travelled on during a brief visit to Tadpole-Prime, and her quarters were correspondingly tiny.  Joelle didn't particularly care - she’d slept in worse places - but some of her staff had been moaning and groaning ever since they’d seen the small compartments they were expected to share.

The Officer’s Mess didn't look any larger than her office on Earth, although it was a great deal more barren.  Each of the bulkheads was painted white - one held a painting of Warspite that, she assumed, had been done by one of the crew - and the table was plain metal, covered in white paint.  The idea of hosting a diplomatic discussion in such surroundings was laughable, although she had a feeling that it would help the diplomats to come to a quicker resolution.  Or, the more cynical part of her mind suggested, start them issuing declarations of war.  

“Ambassador Richardson,” a voice said.  She looked up to see the Captain rising from his chair and walking around the table to greet her.  “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to meet you earlier.”

“That’s quite all right,” Joelle assured him, taking his hand and shaking it briskly.  Her staff had complained, loudly, but she knew from prior experience that starship crews had a great deal of work to do before their ships could depart.  “It’s easier to get settled in before we meet formally.”

She studied the Captain with some interest as she let go of his hand.  He was tall, his dark hair cropped close to his scalp, his face lined in a manner that reminded her of far too many other combat veterans.  His piercing blue eyes would have been attractive, she suspected, if she hadn't sensed a single-minded purposefulness surrounding him.  The dark uniform he wore showed off his muscular body to best advantage.

And he went down to a planet to confront rebels in person, she thought.  The media had made much of it, even though a number of talking heads had condemned Captain Naiser for leaving his ship in an emergency situation.  This is a brave man.

“Please, be seated,” the Captain said, indicating a row of chairs.  “We took the liberty of having food shipped up from Earth.”

“Thank you,” Joelle said.  She sat, facing a dark-skinned officer who regarded her with curious eyes.  “It's been far too long since I was on a starship.”

She indicated her party as the Captain returned to his chair at the head of the table.  “Grace Scott, my assistant; Colonel John Mortimer, Security Expert; Professor Scott Nordstrom of Edinburgh University, Xenospecialist; Penny Schneider, embedded reporter.”

The Captain’s eyes narrowed at Penny’s name, but he said nothing.  Joelle puzzled over it for a long moment, then remembered Penny telling her that her brother had been assigned to Warspite and then left behind on Vesy, in charge of the garrison there.  Later, Joelle had looked it up and confirmed that the Schneider children, born to a war hero and then adopted by another war hero with excellent aristocratic connections, were destined for a glittering future.  It was probably why Penny had won the coveted post of embedded reporter, despite her youth.

“I read your paper on the implications of contact with the Vesy,” Captain Naiser said to Professor Nordstrom, once he’d introduced his crew.  “It was quite provocative.”

“Thank you, Captain,” the Professor said.  “Unfortunately, I was not permitted to interview you before writing my paper.”

“There’s little to add that didn't go in the reports,” the Captain said.  “They’re not human, really, and that’s the important issue.”

Joelle nodded.  “We have some experience with non-human minds already, Captain,” she said.  “The dangers have been noted and logged.”

“And we have more space for mistakes,” Colonel Mortimer added.  “The Vesy, quite simply, do not pose a threat to us.”

“Not physically,” Professor Nordstrom said.  “However, it cannot be denied that contact with them may do us considerable social and political damage.”

Joelle smiled, rather ruefully.  “Captain, can I suggest we eat first?  We’ll be here all night if he starts to discourse on the dangers.”

“Of course,” the Captain said.  He signalled a steward, who came forward pushing a large trolley of soup bowls.  “We can stay here all night afterwards, if you wish.”

The soup tasted faintly of carrot and coriander, Joelle discovered, as she sipped it thoughtfully and studied the crew.  Commander Howard - she’d taken the precaution of skimming through the personnel files during the flight to Warspite - looked calm and composed, while - beside him - Lieutenant-Commander Rosenberg appeared to be bored, although she was doing a good job of hiding it.  Joelle couldn't help a flicker of sympathy; she’d always hated ceremonial dinners as a junior representative, when she’d been too junior to be allowed to talk, but too senior to be left in her quarters.  Beyond her, the Chief Engineer had finished his soup and was muttering quietly to an officer she didn’t recognise.  The stewards removed the soup bowls as soon as they were finished, then started to bring out the next set of dishes.  They might have lacked the polish of the Foreign Office’s catering staff, she noted absently, but they were efficient.

“That tasted better than I expected,” Grace muttered.

“Remind me to discuss the definition of diplomacy with you later,” Joelle muttered back.  It had been a long time since she’d tasted military food, but she didn't remember it with any fondness.  “They brought this up from Earth for us.”

Grace looked embarrassed, which faded quickly as she dug into her roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.  It wasn't something the average person on Earth would enjoy very often, not now; Joelle couldn't help a twinge of guilt as she recalled that rationing was still in place over large tracts of Britain.  Hell, one of the reasons more and more people were emigrating to Britannia or Nova Scotia was that there was no rationing there, as well as more room to breathe.  It probably wouldn't last indefinitely, she was sure, but there were definite advantages to getting in on the ground floor.

“This is very good,” she said, addressing the Captain.  “Your crew are excellent cooks.”

“Thank you, Ambassador,” the Captain said.  “Turning military rations into something edible requires an above-average cook.”

Joelle had to smile as she finished her dinner, then allowed the stewards to take it away and bring a large pot of tea.  There would be no coffee tonight, not if she wanted to sleep.  The sooner she got used to sleeping on the cruiser, the better.  It was something she’d learned from her mentor, back when they’d travelled to Tadpole-Prime.  

“I don’t see how contact with the Vesy could cause political damage to us,” Commander Howard said, once the dishes were cleared away.  “Professor?”

Professor Nordstrom cleared his throat.  “If you will pardon a slight digression,” he said, “all human affairs are governed by strength.  A stronger ... ah, person could have his way with a weaker person, no matter how his victim felt about it.  Internationally, a stronger nation can get what it wants from a weaker nation, as they have the strength to impose their will.”

He took a breath, then leaned forward.  “There was a period in human history where we preferred to pretend that wasn’t true,” he continued.  “We tried to convince ourselves that it was immoral for strong countries to pick on weaker countries ... and then that the strong country was always in the wrong.  The Age of Unrest was a direct result of our failure to ensure that weaker countries knew, if you will pardon the expression, their place.  They believed themselves immune to punishment because the strong chose to bind themselves with their own decency.”

“The strong picking on the weak is called bullying,” Commander Howard said, dryly.

“Yes, but only if the victim doesn't deserve it,” Professor Nordstrom said.  “If a weaker country is hosting a terrorist camp that poses a threat to a stronger country, is it bullying for the stronger country to destroy the terrorist camp, no matter where it is located?”

He shrugged.  “It is important to note,” he warned, “that the Vesy are primitive compared to us.  There will be a very strong temptation to use force to get what we want from them.”

Joelle couldn't disagree.  She’d worked in both gunboat diplomacy - practiced against countries that were too weak to pose a threat - and actual diplomacy with the Great Powers, where outright conflict would probably result in mutual annihilation.  There was no patience for negotiating with weaker countries, countries inhabited by people too stupid to realise the true cause of their problems.  If they caused trouble, they got walloped.  It had been the way of things since the Age of Unrest had swept aside a great many illusions.

“This leads to a second point,” Professor Nordstrom added.  “There is a tendency amongst a certain kind of people to believe that the wiser folks should act as parents to the unwise folks - and you should have no doubt in which category they place themselves.  They see themselves as the parents and everyone else as the children - and, in doing so, assert the right to dictate how people live their lives.  Indeed, before the Age of Unrest, there were entire organisations and charities that, with the best of intentions, set out to inflict their so-called wisdom on so-called primitive societies.  The results were rarely pleasant.”

He met Howard’s eyes.  “The weaker societies were often devastated by the influx of bad wisdom,” he said.  “But the stronger societies lost the wisdom to question the rightness of their actions.  Being charitable was seen as a good thing in itself; there was no awareness that charity had to be tailored to local requirements or that the ultimate intention needed to be weaning the weaker societies off charity.  There was no feedback system that allowed them to actually measure the success of their acts. Nor did they have any real understanding of the societies they were trying to improve.  Their ... idealised view of the locals prevented them from actually understanding them.

“In short, they acted like bad parents, alternatively scolding the child and preventing him from having to face the consequences of his mistakes.”

“They believed in the concept of the noble savage,” the Captain said, slowly.

“Precisely,” Professor Nordstrom said.

He looked down at his cup of tea, then back at the Captain.  “We could teach the Vesy so many things, Captain,” he said.  “But they would grow into cheap copies of us, at best, with all the virtues of their society destroyed.  And we would see that as a good result, so we would not hesitate to do the same to another alien race, should we encounter one.”

Grace snorted.  “But why should we leave them in squalor?”

Joelle smiled, inwardly.  She’d picked her staff for their differing ideas in the hopes it would give her multiple different viewpoints ... and, it seemed, she’d succeeded magnificently.

“They can always get themselves out of squalor,” Professor Nordstrom pointed out, dryly.

“They can't,” Grace said.  She took a breath.  “If the reports are accurate, life on Vesy is nasty, brutish and short.  We could make their lives so much better simply by introducing a few ideas and concepts to them.  Don’t we have a moral duty to assist those less fortunate than ourselves?”

“But how long would it be,” the Professor asked, “before you started telling yourself that you always knew better than them?  That you knew what was good for them and anyone who disagreed was merely being short-sighted?”

Grace glowered at him.  “If I see a child living in squalor, it would be my duty to help,” she said, flatly.  “Does that change when the child isn't human?”

“You might be taking a child away from loving parents,” the Professor pointed out.  “Or you might be committing yourself to look after the child for the rest of your life.”

He paused.  “I understand your argument,” he admitted.  “There is a certain emotional impulse to help the less fortunate.  But, at the same time, we have to be careful what we teach them to do.  Simple measures against disease, as you suggest, would cause a population boom, which in turn would put a strain on their ability to feed their people.”

“And an expanding population might start waging war on its neighbours for living space,” the Captain said, quietly.  “Your decision to cure diseases for them might kill more people, in the long run, than the diseases.”

“It happened,” Professor Nordstrom said.  “There were other problems caused by meddling in purely human affairs.  One problem that repeated itself, time and time again, were attempts to feed the hungry by shipping in food from more productive countries.  Would you like to guess what happened?”

He went on before anyone could answer.  “In some cases, the food was seized and used to feed armies,” he answered his own question.  “But in others, it completely destroyed the profit motive for producing food locally.  And so, when the outsiders lost interest in supplying food, there was no one there to take up the strain and the entire population plummeted sharply.”

“But we have to try,” Grace insisted.  “You’re saying it’s immoral to interfere, while I’m saying it’s immoral not to interfere.”

“We would need to let their society adapt to each new introduction,” Professor Nordstrom said, bluntly.  “However, it wouldn't be too long before we were trying to steer their society ourselves, without regard for what they wanted.  And that leads to another problem.”

Joelle had to smile.  “Another problem?”

“A more serious problem,” Professor Nordstrom told her.  “When you were a child, your parents looked after you, helped you through your problems and disciplined you when you were naughty.  They cooked for you, cleaned for you and ensured you never had to face any real long-term consequences for bouts of random naughtiness.  Being a child isn't really like being an adult.

“Now tell me; would you enjoy having someone treat you as a child, now, or would you resent it bitterly?”

He was right, Joelle knew.  It had been a long time since she’d fled the nest, and she still loved and honoured her parents, but she wouldn't want them running her adult life.  The thought of being told what to do and what not to do at thirty years old was thoroughly unpleasant.  If her parents had been able to control her life, she knew she would have resented their meddling bitterly.  Hell, she’d resented them telling her what to do at thirteen.

“The Vesy may be primitive, but they are not children,” Professor Nordstrom continued.  “I’ve said that time and time again, to everyone who will listen; they are not stupid and they will resent us trying to steer their development into something we would consider civilised.  It doesn't matter what intentions we have, it doesn’t matter how much we know that they don't; they will hate and resent us for everything we do for them.  And that hatred may eventually find expression.”

He looked around the compartment, warningly.  “And how long will it be until we start regarding them as children?  One does not hate children.  One does not subject children to adult punishment.  But one does not consider children mature and responsible either.”

“And so they will rise up against us,” Captain Naiser said.

“They need time for their society to adapt to meet ours on a more equal basis,” Professor Nordstrom said.  “I don't think they’re going to get that time, not when so many other parties heading to Vesy.”

“Their society might improve,” Grace said.  “We could warn them of the dangers ...”

“There were a number of countries in Africa that were granted access to sex-selection pills for their children,” Professor Nordstrom said.  “Those countries were inhabited by people who were culturally inclined to favour male children.  They knew the dangers, but they used the pills anyway ... and, thirty years later, fought a series of brutal civil wars over access to women.  We could wind up giving the Vesy comparable problems.”

“Then we do our best to come to terms with the other nations,” Joelle said.  “We may be able to place limits on what can be shared with the Vesy.”

“It won’t work if one party refuses to uphold the limits,” Professor Nordstrom said.  “Smugglers were quite happy to ship pills to Africa after the international charities were formally banned from supplying them.”

“We can prevent smugglers from shipping anything to Vesy,” Joelle said, flatly.  She gave the Captain a long look.  “We need to discuss the matter later, if you don’t mind.”

The Captain nodded.  “I will be happy to meet with you when I’m not on duty,” he said.  “Leave a note in my inbox and I will get back to you.”

Joelle nodded.  She had a private suspicion that the Captain would set the meeting time to suit himself, but it hardly mattered.  It was hard to blame him for resenting her and her staff for clogging up his ship.  

She finished her mug of tea, then rose.  “With your permission, I will seek my bunk,” she added.  By custom, once she was gone the others could leave too, if they wished.  She had a feeling that the Professor would stay and chat with the officers, while Grace would probably seek out her own bunk.  God alone knew what Penny would do.  “I’ll speak to you once we’re underway.”

“Of course, Ambassador,” the Captain said.  He rose, too.  “And thank you for your company tonight.”

See if you still like me after we start working together, Joelle thought, ruefully.  It won’t be easy.

Chapter Seven

“Miss Schneider would like an interview,” Howard said, as John came onto the bridge and took command.  “She actually sent three messages, each one with the same request.”

John had to smile.  It would be quite awkward when her brother found out she was on the ship, let alone what she’d been doing.  “What did you tell her?”

“That you were too busy making preparations for departure,” Howard said.  “I think she will probably start bombarding you with requests, again, once we leave.”

John sat down in the command chair and checked the status display.  Dashing and Daring had taken up position on each side of the freighters, while Tootal was holding position just in front of them.  She wasn't exactly a warship, John reminded himself, but she could give any pirate ship a nasty surprise if one dared to attack her.  But then, even the thought of piracy had seemed absurd until recently.  How could anyone afford to keep a pirate ship running while raiding worlds and ships on the edge of explored space?

The Russians did it, he thought, sourly.  But their ships were breaking down well before we caught them.

“Tell her that I will make time for an interview once we pass through Terra Nova,” he said, finally.  “I’ve really been interviewed too many times in the last six months.”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said.

John settled down in the command chair, then inspected the list of updates from Nelson Base.  The small squadron was cleared to depart, on schedule, with a hint that if they could leave earlier the Admiralty would be pleased.  They were fully provisioned, ready to take the quick route to Vesy, while a handful of other ships would take the longer route.  It was irritating that the handful of interstellar liners couldn't use alien-grade tramlines - it meant he had to endure having the Ambassador and her staff on his ship - but there was no way around it.  Nothing smaller than a fleet carrier could jump a liner through a tramline ...

He pushed the thought aside and glanced at the crew readiness reports.  “The replacements arrived onboard?”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said.  “They seem to be fitting in well, based on one day of active service.”

“Keep an eye on them,” John ordered.  He cleared his throat, then looked at the communications console.  “Lieutenant Forbes, transmit a Prepare to Depart signal to the convoy, with a baseline tag of ten minutes.”

“Aye, sir,” Lieutenant Gillian Forbes said.  “Signal sent.”

John nodded in acknowledgement.  Lieutenant Forbes had spent the last five months grappling with the Vesy language database the Russians had amassed and, while no human could speak the language properly, she was sure she could understand Vesy-One.  No one, not even the Russians, were sure if there were other languages on the planet or not, although John was inclined to suspect there were.  The Roman world had been far smaller than an entire planet and they’d spoken dozens of different languages.  But they’d also had Latin as a common language ...

He shook his head.  No doubt they’d find out when the small army of researchers went to work on Vesy.  

And it lets us keep control, he thought, with some amusement.  We can deactivate automatic translators and voders if necessary.

“They’ve acknowledged,” Lieutenant Forbes informed him.  “They’re powering up their drives now.”

John nodded, feeling a spark of genuine excitement.  It wasn't quite the same as taking Warspite into the unknown - he couldn't help feeling a twinge of guilt at not having completed the survey of local stars and tramlines around Pegasus - but there was definitely something about taking his small squadron away from Earth.  He, not the Admiralty, not the Prime Minister, not even the King himself, would be in command, master of his squadron.  It was a heady responsibility, but one he enjoyed.  There was nothing quite like it as a starfighter pilot.

But you had other entertainments, he reminded himself.  You could spend your time off-duty shacked up with Colin and no one gave a damn.

The thought caused him a flicker of pain.  It had been five years since the war, five years since Colin had been blown to bits by the Tadpoles ... and his loss still hurt.  It sometimes made him wonder if there was something wrong with him, when most starfighter pilots moved from love interest to love interest with nary a qualm.  Or maybe it had just been love ... hell, they’d talked about finding a home together when the war came to an end.  Not, in the end, that it had mattered.  Colin had died and John had been unable to even think of staying on as a starfighter pilot.  It felt too much like a betrayal.

He cleared his throat.  “Mr. Howard,” he said.  “Ship’s status?”

“All systems are nominal, Captain,” Howard said.  “We are ready to depart on your command.”

“Lieutenant Forbes, send a signal to Nelson Base,” John ordered.  “Inform them that we are departing on schedule.”

“Aye, sir,” Gillian said.

John sucked in his breath, feeling a dull thrumming echoing through the hull as the main drives came online.  This time, there would be no problems; this time, everything had been checked and rechecked twice by different officers.  If there was another criminal gang operating within the bowels of his ship, it would have been forced to pull in its horns or be mercilessly exposed to the cold light of day.  This time, he would not suffer the humiliation of having his starship drifting helplessly through space, an easy target for anyone who wanted to pick off a cruiser without risk.  

And the pirates taught us that there are still threats out there, he thought, bitterly.  And the Tadpoles may restart the war if they feel we are still a threat to them.

It wasn't a comforting thought.  The Russians hadn't been particularly forthcoming on the question of just how many ships might have gone rogue and it was quite possible there were more deserters out there.  There were a number of Russian ships unaccounted for, according to MI6, but the chaos of the Battle of New Russia had probably concealed their destruction from prying eyes.  And the Russians were not the only ones who had lost ships.  John had been told, in confidence, that a review of the available records suggested that upwards of seventeen ships from other interstellar powers remained unaccounted for.  

We should have asked the Tadpoles for their records of the battle, he thought.  But no one really wanted to open that particular can of worms.

“Course laid in, sir,” Lieutenant Carlos Armstrong reported.  “We’re on a least-time course to Vesy.”

John leaned back in his command chair.  “Lieutenant Forbes,” he said, “order the other ships to follow us.”

“Aye, sir,” Gillian said.

“Helm, take us out,” John added.

Another dull quiver ran through the ship as she came to life, slowly heading out of orbit and into the open space beyond.  John watched the holographic display carefully, silently counting the number of starships leaving Earth.  The swarm of giant colonist-carriers he recalled from Warspite’s first departure hadn't slowed at all; indeed, it had only grown more frantic.  Hundreds of thousands of people were leaving the planet each month, hoping to set up a home somewhere well away from Earth.  The human race would no longer have most of its eggs in one basket.

And if we’d lost Earth, we would have lost the war, John thought, grimly.  Most of our population and industrial base would be gone.

He caught sight of one icon and frowned.  The Indians had refused to join the British Commonwealth, when it had reasserted itself during the Age of Unrest, and they’d been held back by their determination to make their own way into space, but they were catching up now.  INS Viraat was large enough to pass for an American fleet carrier, although her commissioning had been delayed when the Indians had obtained the formula for heavy ablative armour and coated her hull for additional protection.  Not that John particularly blamed them, he had to admit.  The Battle of New Russia had taught the human race that lightly-armoured carriers were nothing more than easy targets for the Tadpoles, who had casually wiped out seven such ships in the battle.  

She could almost pass for Theodore Smith, he thought, recalling the first of the post-war British carriers.  She’d entered service only the previous year and was still working up, along with her two sisters.  All she would need is more armour and more heavy weapons.

He sighed, inwardly.  Beyond her, there were hundreds of other warships, belonging to twenty different human powers.  No one would take the risk of leaving Earth undefended, not after the bombardment; no one, not even the powers that refused to cooperate with their neighbours outside the Solar System, would ignore the Solar Treaty.  If someone tried to challenge humanity over its homeworld, every spacefaring power would react ...

And if we do have a clash with someone outside the Sol System, he thought, it won’t be allowed to spread here.

“Captain,” Howard said.  “All systems are functioning at acceptable levels.”

“Good,” John said.  He wouldn't be entirely happy until they’d jumped through the first alien-grade tramline - that had been when disaster had struck, months ago - but it was a relief to know that everything seemed to be working properly.  Some problems only showed themselves when the ship was actually underway.  “And the squadron?”

“They don’t seem to be having any difficulty keeping up with us,” Howard said.

Armstrong coughed.  “We could move faster, sir.”

John shook his head, even though he knew Armstrong couldn't see him.  “I think we need to stick with them,” he said, dryly.  “Keep an eye on the convoy and inform me if there are any problems.”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said.

“And remind the crew that we are approaching the Last Line,” John added.  “If they want to send any messages home, they won’t have another chance for a few weeks.”

“Yes, sir,” Howard said, again.

John glanced at his display, then shrugged.  There wasn’t anyone on Earth he cared to send a message to, not now.  His parents had always disapproved of his career choice, while his sister had swallowed the wrong line of propaganda and assumed that John was responsible for killing hundreds of aliens.  Given that they’d been trying to kill his men at the time - and killed or enslaved hundreds of thousands of their own kind - it wasn't something that would keep him up at night.

Instead, he looked at the final set of intelligence reports from MI6.  Hundreds of starships were on their way to Vesy, although - as most of them were incapable of using alien-grade tramlines - it was quite possible the squadron would beat most of them to the planet.  At that point ... he cursed under his breath as he recalled his orders.  He’d asked the First Space Lord for clarification, but the Admiral hadn't been able to give him any.  There was too much risk of being unable to maintain the balance between the two political factions in the Royal Navy.

Life was so much easier when we were fighting the war, John thought, morbidly.  At least we knew who the enemy was, back then.

“Captain,” Armstrong said.  “We will make transit in ten minutes.”

“Inform our guests,” John ordered.  It was rare for a Royal Naval crewman, at least one on active service, to have a bad reaction to the transit through the tramline, but sometimes a vulnerable civilian wouldn’t be noticed until they made the jump.  “And tell the doctor to stand by, just in case.”

He groaned, inwardly.  As always, the ship’s doctor had been distressingly thorough when he’d poked and prodded at John, even though his sensors could have told him most of what he’d picked up by touch.  John knew he wasn't the only crewman to dread physical exams - it seemed to be common throughout the Royal Navy - but there was no point in complaining.  It was laid down in regulations and no one, not even the ship’s commander, was spared.

“Aye, sir,” Howard said.  

The Ambassador has been out-system before, John thought.  So has Professor Nordstrom - he was one of the researchers who went to Heinlein, where humans and Tadpoles are trying to live in harmony.  But what about the others?

He cursed under his breath.  There simply hadn't been time to review all of the files.

“Tramline in five minutes,” Armstrong reported.

“Lieutenant Forbes, transmit all final messages in the buffer,” John ordered.  Any other messages would be stored, at least until Warspite encountered a homeward-bound starship on her cruise.  “Attach our final status report, then close communications.”

“Aye, sir,” Gillian said.

John forced himself to relax.  It always felt nerve-wracking approaching a tramline, even one as well-known as the link between Earth and Terra Nova.  He knew, intellectually, that there was no real chance of a collision, or a hostile force waiting on the far side, but emotionally it was hard to believe.  He’d earned his wings just after the war began, after all, and both sides had tried to ambush the other as they’d jumped through the tramlines.

“Tramline in one minute,” Armstrong said.  A timer appeared on the display, counting down the seconds.  “Transit in five ... four ... three ... two ... one ...”

John braced himself.  The universe dimmed, just for a second, then returned to normal.  But the display had blanked out and was hastily reformatting itself as the ship’s sensors sucked in data from all over the Terra Nova system.  Hundreds of icons flickered into existence, marked with warning messages that indicated that they might have changed position before the emissions from their drives reached Warspite.  It might have been just his imagination, but it looked as though Terra Nova was seeing less organised activity these days.  The miners might have decided to head to the newer colony worlds to try their luck there.

It would be hard to blame them, he thought, coldly.  Terra Nova had been a mistake from the start, when so many different groups were settled in close proximity and expected to get along; their feuding factions had only recently been taking their dispute into open space, as if they wanted to convince the interstellar powers to intervene.  This isn't a safe place to live.

“Transit complete,” Armstrong reported.

I noticed, John thought.  He didn't say it out loud.  Regulations insisted that Armstrong had to make his report, even if it was easy to tell if the jump had completed or not.  And nothing went wrong, this time.

He keyed his console.  “Engineering?”

“Puller Drive is powering down, Captain,” Mike Johnston reported.  He’d sounded more cheerful over the last two days.  It had been so obvious that John had a quiet suspicion he'd gotten lucky on Nelson Base.  “All power curves are nominal.”

“Good,” John said.

“I’d like to run a handful of additional tests, just to be sure,” Johnston added.  “Do you mind ...?”

“Not at all,” John said.  After what had happened the last time they’d left Earth, he would happily have underwritten any number of tests while they were still in an inhabited star system.  “We will make our next transit in” - he glanced at the display, running through the calculation in his head - “nine hours.”

“Plenty of time,” Johnston said.  “Engineering out.”

John nodded, then looked at Howard.  “Start running tracking exercises,” he ordered, flatly.  “I want to know everything we can about everyone in the system by the time we leave.”

“Aye, sir,” Howard said.  It would be good practice for when they arrived at Vesy, they both knew.  They’d have to watch for smugglers entering through the tramlines, as well as rogue miners and others who might try to stake a claim to the system.  A human population within the Vesy System would cause no end of legal problems.  “I’ll get the tactical crew right on it.”

John nodded, then checked his inbox.  They should have received an update from the Royal Navy’s guardship, but it was really too early to expect one.  It would probably be at least four hours before one was transmitted, assuming the guardship even saw Warspite and her convoy arriving.  Instead, he rose to his feet.  There was no shortage of paperwork he had to do in his office, now they were on their way.

“Commander Howard, you have the bridge,” he said.  “Inform me once the guardship sends us the intelligence packet.”

“Aye, Captain,” Howard said.

John stepped through the hatch into his office, then shrugged off his jacket and sat down at the metal desk.  He was mildly surprised he hadn't been urged to give up his cabin to the ambassador, even though it wasn't really much bigger than the VIP quarters, but it would have been inconvenient.  The office might have been his, yet his XO and several other crewmen were expected to use it from time to time.  Warspite simply didn't have the hull volume to give everyone an office.

And I wouldn't trade you for a full-sized fleet carrier, he thought, rubbing the bulkhead affectionately.  Not that he’d get a fleet carrier, unless he was very lucky.  It had been sheer luck - and a certain amount of expendability - that had earned him Warspite.  You’re far more nimble than any wallowing pig of a carrier.

He tapped his terminal, snorted in annoyance as he realised there were several more requests for an interview from Penny Schneider, and then a message from the Ambassador.  She wanted a meeting too, over dinner.  John couldn't decide if she thought that food would make the ideas flow better, or if she reasoned she’d have a better chance of catching him if she asked him to dinner.  She had to know he wouldn't have much free time.

Sighing, he keyed out a reply to both women and then went to work.

Chapter Eight

“Tell me something,” Grace Scott said, as John stepped into the ambassador’s cabin.  “Are your quarters any larger than this?”

“Only by a couple of square meters,” John said, dryly.  He’d met too many people like Grace Scott before, men and women who thought it was their job to be offended on their principal’s behalf.  “Warspite is a cruiser, not a fleet carrier.”

Grace looked unconvinced.  “Then why didn't you assign the largest cabin to Ambassador Richardson?”

John met her eyes and held them.  “Because my cabin is right next to the bridge, where I need to be if there’s an emergency,” he said.  “The VIP cabins are towards the rear of Officer Country because they aren’t required to do anything if we run into trouble.”

“It’s quite all right,” Joelle Richardson said, as she emerged from the sleeping compartment.  “I really have been in worse places, Captain.”

“And you could be bedded down with the midshipmen,” John said, as she held out her hand for him to shake.  “They have to sleep doubled-up because of your party.”

Grace frowned.  “Aren't they used to it?”

“No,” John said, flatly.

He gazed around the cabin.  It was small, yet there were three compartments and just enough room to swing a cat.  John was pretty sure his midshipmen would have been delighted to have such a cabin to themselves, particularly if they didn't get the duties that normally came with a private compartment.  The bulkheads were bare, but there was no reason why the ambassador couldn't hang pictures on the metal or cover them with cloth or mirrors to give the impression that the cabin was larger than it seemed.  Compared to the cabin he’d shared at the Academy, it was paradise incarnate.

You could bring a person to your bunk and have fun, he thought, wryly.  There would certainly be no need to negotiate with your bunkmates for some privacy.

“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering food for the three of us, Captain,” the ambassador said, as John sat at the small folding table.  “And please call me Joelle.”

“Call me John,” John said.

Joelle smiled.  “I read your service record,” she said, as Grace glanced into the next room and then sat down next to John.  “I understand you saw service in the war?”

“Yes, Ambassador ... Joelle,” John said.  That was hardly a secret.  The media had done endless profiles on him, ever since he’d returned from Vesy with the news of a second alien race.  It was amusing to note just how much they’d gotten wrong ... and how much they’d deliberately misinterpreted in hopes of writing a better story.  “I flew starfighters against the Tadpoles.”

Grace coughed.  “Do you have to call them Tadpoles?”  She asked.  “It isn't the nicest thing to say.  And it implies inferiority to humanity.”

“Their name for themselves is unpronounceable,” John reminded her.  “There’s no point in trying to call them by their proper name.  They don’t seem to care.”

“It’s still a bad attitude,” Grace said.

John shrugged.  He had the feeling he was being tested.  Nothing in Joelle’s file had suggested she had problems calling her subordinates to heel, if she felt it necessary.  If she was tolerating Grace acting like a spoilt teenager, she presumably had a reason for allowing her aide to embarrass herself.  But what?

“We understand that they are powerful, and that the last thing either side wants is to resume the war,” he said, flatly.  “That is all we really need to understand.”

He cleared his throat.  “I flew starfighters until I transferred to capital ships and made my way up through the ranks,” he added.  “It has been an interesting career.”

“You encountered a whole new alien race,” Joelle said.  “What are your ... impressions of them?”

“Primitive, by our standards, but bursting with potential,” John said.  An alien observer might have said the same of humanity, if he’d peered down at Earth five hundred years ago.  “Also quite barbaric, by our standards.  The purges of the God-King’s supporters made the Spanish Inquisition look inefficient.”

“It’s unfair to judge them by our standards,” Grace pointed out.  “They’re not human.”

John smirked, remembering Colin’s verbal games.  “But isn’t it more insulting not to judge them by our standards?  To treat them as children who cannot be expected to understand the seriousness of their crimes?”

“They are, to some extent,” Joelle said.  “Five years ago, they had no idea that they weren't the only intelligent life in the universe.”

“Five years ago, we had no idea we weren't the only intelligent life in the universe,” John countered.  “And then we ran into the Tadpoles.”

He shuddered at the thought.  Humanity had been in shock, ever since the first attack on Vera Cruz, and it hadn't been until the end of the war that the philosophical implications had begun to sink in.  The human race was no longer alone ... and, if the Tadpoles weren’t that far from human space, just how much of the galaxy was already taken?  And, if the Tadpoles had been more advanced than humanity when the war had begun, might there be other more advanced races out there, some potentially hostile?  Might humanity run into a race armed with weapons that made nukes look like firecrackers?

“They didn't even have the concept of alien life,” Joelle pointed out.  “We did, even if we didn't believe they truly existed.”

“True,” John agreed.

The hatch opened, revealing a steward carrying a large tray of food.  John leaned to one side as the three plates were placed in front of them, then the steward retreated as silently as he’d arrived.  At least they’d managed to get a pair of real stewards, he reminded himself, as he lifted the lid to reveal beef stew, mashed potatoes and greens.  There was no need to waste a midshipman’s time serving as a steward, in addition to his or her regular duties.

“We are going to need to work together,” Joelle said, when she had eaten enough to satisfy the first hunger pangs.  “I understand that I am cleared to talk to diplomats from other human powers, but you’re expected to talk to military officers.”

“If they are cleared to talk to me,” John said.  “Military officers are not normally expected to set diplomatic policy.”

“Their superiors will have to clear it,” Joelle said.  “But could you work with them, if they were cleared to work with you?”

“It shouldn't be a problem, as long as we agreed on the ground rules,” John said.  “We managed to work together fairly well during the war.”

Joelle frowned.  “But managing the aftermath was tricky,” she said.  “The Japanese believe that at least one of their carriers was sacrificed without due cause, while the French think their interests were unheeded and the Russians ... well, the less said about the Russians the better.”

“Really?”  John asked.  “Why?”

“Diplomatic disaster,” Joelle said, shortly.  She didn't seem inclined to address the subject any further.  “Suffice it to say that the Russians feel boxed in and unwilling to cooperate too openly with the other powers.”

John winced.  The Russians had reclaimed their personnel - and, even though they faced charges ranging from desertion to breaking the non-interference edict, their mere existence gave the Russians something to bargain with.  They knew more about Vesy than anyone else, save perhaps for the Marines John had left on the alien world.  It was quite possible that there was already a Russian ship or two heading to Vesy, intent on picking up where the renegades had left off.  Or maybe they would sell what they knew to the highest bidder.

Should never have let them out of Geneva, he thought.  He’d done his best to follow the politics closely, but precisely why the Russians had been allowed to return home was beyond him.  Someone must have done a considerable amount of horse-trading behind the scenes.  It was unlikely the Russians would simply put them in front of a wall, as soon as they returned home, and have them shot.

“It does raise questions concerning jurisdiction,” John said.  “If all of the interstellar powers cooperate, we can limit access to Vesy.  But if one or more powers refuse to cooperate, it will be impossible to legally blockade the entire world.  It isn't the Britannic System, where we own everything.”

“Do the best you can, I think,” Joelle said.  “In the long run, if we are unable to secure a joint agreement, our objective is to convince as many Vesy factions as possible to sign up with us.”

“Then trade weapons,” John said, flatly.  “That will get you all the factions you could possibly want.”

Grace coughed.  “Are you seriously suggesting that we encourage the locals to fight?”

John gave her a long considering look.  “You want them to sign up with us,” he said, somehow managing to keep his voice level.  “If so, you have to give them something they want in exchange - and what they want, most of all, are human weapons.  Weapons that will give them a decisive advantage against any city-state that doesn't have access to human weapons ... and weapons that will even the odds against any city-state that does.”

“We could offer them medicine,” Grace said.  “Or ... there are all sorts of little ideas we could give them.”

“None of which will help them worth a damn if they are crushed by their neighbours,” John said.  “The God-King created an empire, Miss Short.  It might not have lasted, but it introduced the concept to them.  City-states with human weapons will seek to impose themselves on their neighbours; city-states without them will do whatever it takes to get them.  And if that means signing up with the Russians, instead of us, they will do it.”

He scowled down at the table.  “You’re trying to outbid other human states,” he added, darkly.  “Even if we have qualms about offering weapons, the Russians or Chinese or even the French won’t have any hesitation.  The states that sign up with us will defect or get crushed, once their neighbours are armed to the teeth.  And any medical ideas we give our friends will be taken by force.”

“You're treating them as if they’re human,” Grace said.  “They may not react like us!”

“They were struggling for supremacy for centuries before the Russians arrived,” John said.  It was tempting to blame everything on the Russians, but there was no evidence that the Vesy had been peaceful at any point in their history.  Their city-states were ringed with solid walls, suggesting they had good reason to fear attack.  “I judge them by what we saw - and what we saw was barbaric savagery.”

“By human rules,” Grace insisted.  “Their rules might be different.”

John shrugged.  “If you gave Napoleon nukes,” he said, “would he have hesitated to use them, judging by the standards of the time?  If you gave Philip of Spain machine guns, would he have paused before unleashing carnage on a scale no one of that time could envisage?  If you gave the Romans television, would they delay long before installing one in every household so the entire population could enjoy its bread and circuses?”

Grace scowled.  “What’s your point?”

“Human civilisation developed slowly, adapting to new technology as it came along,” John said.  “No, I don’t think Napoleon would have hesitated before unleashing nukes; his society simply wasn't advanced enough to understand the implications of using them.  Even television ... one could make a case that television retarded the development of human civilisation.  The Vesy are nowhere near advanced enough to be able to handle our technology without inflicting major damage on their society.”

“And yet you’re still judging them by human rules,” Grace insisted.

“And yet their rules don’t see anything wrong with mass slaughter,” John countered.  “Nor did Napoleon see anything wrong with sacking cities, George Washington see anything wrong with sending the Indians smallpox-infested blankets, Philip of Spain see anything wrong with slaughtering thousands of people because their noblemen had embraced one sect of Christianity over another.  We have to accept that they don’t play by our rules.”

“Captain,” Grace said.  “That’s ...”

“That will do,” Joelle said.  She tapped her fork against her plate meaningfully.  “I apologise, Captain.  Some of my staff put their idealism ahead of their common sense.”

John glanced at Grace.  She was blushing.  “I was surprised you didn't invite Professor Nordstrom,” he said.  “I’m sure he could have countered her points more openly.”

“I wanted to talk with you alone,” Joelle said.  She glanced at Grace.  “I’ll speak to you later, if you don’t mind.”

It was clearly a dismissal.  Grace nodded, then rose to her feet and stalked through the hatch to the sleeping compartment.  John wondered, inanely, if the ambassador and her aide were sleeping together, instead of just sharing a cabin, then dismissed the thought.  Even if it were true, and he rather doubted it, they weren't covered by navy regulations against fraternisation.

“It's always interesting to have multiple different viewpoints on a given topic,” Joelle said, once the hatch had closed.  “But, at the same time, it also causes problems when the arguments start overriding everything else.  Do you have that problem in the military?”

“Sometimes,” John said, thinking of Admiral Fitzwilliam and Admiral Soskice.  “But we are trained to pull together, when necessary.”

“You may be right,” Joelle admitted.  “Selling weapons is perhaps the only way we can get large numbers of Vesy on our side.  But, at the same time, it will not go down well on Earth.”

“Politics,” John said, making the word a curse.

“And public relations,” Joelle added.  “You probably know just how many factions there are that want to help the Vesy, while others just want to quarantine their system or even commit genocide, on the theory the Vesy might be a threat one day.”

“I know,” John said.

“We have to patch together several different agreements, John,” Joelle said.  She stood and paced over to the drinks machine, then pushed a switch.  Two plastic cups of coffee dropped down into the dispenser.  “We need agreements with the Vesy to give us access to the system, but we also need agreements with other human powers to limit just what we pass on to the Vesy.  And that will get people like Grace” - she nodded towards the hatch - “het up about us treating the Vesy as children.”

“Which may be the best thing to do,” John observed.

“But Professor Nordstrom is right,” Joelle added.  She picked up one of the cups and passed it to John, then took the other for herself.  “The Vesy will resent it hugely if we hold them back - or if we are seen to be holding them back.  And yet, if we set up schools and teach them how to be ... well, human, that will shatter their society beyond repair.”

John took a sip of his coffee.  “Does their society deserve to be saved?”

Joelle looked back at him, evenly.  “Do you believe we should destroy it?”

“They are savages, by our standards,” John said, flatly.  “In some ways, they are more repressive than many human societies.  One might rightly question if such a society deserves to exist.”

“We answered that one during the Age of Unrest,” Joelle pointed out.  “The idea of reshaping foreign societies was abandoned.  Instead, we chose to merely seal them off from civilised lands.”

“Which condemned millions of people to a life of suffering,” John said, “which was made all the worse by educated youngsters leaving in droves.”

Joelle shrugged.  “We couldn't fix their problems when we had access to the boundless resources of space and all the time in the world,” she said.  “Now, with most of our resources tied up in rebuilding after the war, we couldn't spare anything for the Third World.  They can solve their own problems, if they wish.”

She sat down again, facing him.  “I will need your support, Captain, and your advice,” she said.  “This won’t be easy.”

“You will have as much support as I can give you,” John promised.  “But I don’t expect everyone to fall into line.  Control over Vesy will grant control over the system - and there are seven tramlines here.  The system is a prize worth fighting for.”

Joelle gave him a sharp look.  “You expect one of the interstellar powers to try to seize the system by force?  Invade Vesy itself?”

“It’s a possibility,” John warned.  “The Vesy couldn't put up any real resistance to a single destroyer; hell, a freighter could smash any opposition from orbit with the right weapons kit bolted to the hull.  Come up with an excuse to invade, take the planet by force, make agreements at gunpoint with the surviving city-states, then announce the system closed to everyone else and declare victory.  There’s no reason why it couldn't work.”

Joelle looked disturbed.  “Unless we got the majority of the interstellar powers to agree that invading Vesy is off the table,” she said.  “It isn't as if it’s a human world - and the last war ended with a return to the status quo.”

“That would compromise their ability - and ours - to launch punitive strikes,” John pointed out.  The Tadpoles could have prolonged the fighting if humanity had demanded compensation for the death and devastation caused by the war.  “I don’t think they would go for a flat ban on invasion.  What if some of their people come under attack?”

“You have a nasty imagination,” Joelle said.  She reached for a datapad and made a note, then looked back at him.  “What else do you have in mind?”

“Too much,” John said.  “For example, what happens if smugglers start shipping in tech manuals as well as weapons and pieces of technology?  Something dating back to 1800 would be useless to us, but very informative to them.”

Joelle groaned.  “It’s going to be a mess, isn't it?”

“That’s why they pay us the big bucks,” John said.  “But don’t count on this being sorted out in a hurry.”

Chapter Nine

It hadn't been easy to provide a precise translation of any of the titles used by Vesy rulers, not when it was impossible to define how they were selected or even what they were supposed to do.  Some of the city-states seemed to have a limited democracy - with very restricted franchises - while others were ruled by powerful citizens or religious factions.  Ivan, who appeared to be an elected king, seemed to fall somewhere in the middle.  Percy had long since given up trying to work out how the system worked.  It was something he would cheerfully leave to the xenospecialists when they finally arrived from Earth.

He bowed, keeping one hand on his pistol in line with local traditions, as Ivan stepped into the meeting room.  The Vesy was very definitely inhuman; tall, taller than the average human, with scaly green skin, dark and beady eyes and a flattened nose.  He wore a long dark cloak that passed for formal wear, among the aliens, and metal chains that ran down from his neck to vanish somewhere in the enshrouding folds of his cloak.  The sword hilt poking out from the robes was a clear warning that Ivan was armed, a freeman of his city-state as well as its ruler.  He’d been the ruler before, Percy knew, but now he was something different.  But then, his former city-state was something else too.

“I greet you,” Ivan said, in careful English.  The Vesy seemed to have a natural gift for languages; by now, English was spreading as fast as Russian.  Percy would have been impressed if he hadn't known that Russian-speaking slaves commanded high prices in the slave markets.  “I thank you for meeting me.”

“I welcome you,” Percy said.  As always, listening to the Vesy reminded him of how he’d spoken as a child, before his mother had started to scold him for talking with his mouth full.  It wasn't easy to make out the words, but it could be done.  “I am honoured to have you at my door.”

The Vesy smiled, human-style.  “There is much to discuss,” he said.  “We shall be blunt.”

Percy nodded, unsure if Ivan was using the Royal ‘We’ or speaking about both of them.  The aliens might speak English, but attempts to translate from Vesy-One to English tended to cause problems, particularly when Russian was also involved.  Percy had heard that it had been worse, trying to talk to the Tadpoles, yet he found it somewhat hard to believe.  Besides, the Tadpoles had been helped by communications officers who’d had plenty of time to prepare for an encounter with alien life.  He had a handful of Russians and their former hostages.

“There are several powerful coalitions forming against us,” Ivan said.  “We require your support.”

He paused.  “One of them has support from a rogue human.”

Percy winced.  He had always suspected that some of the Russians had been on detached duty when the Russian base had been overrun, then vanished into the countryside when the God-King and his forces were crushed.  None of the Vesy factions had openly admitted to keeping a Russian or two prisoner, but Percy wouldn't have expected them to give up such a potential advantage.  A trained Russian soldier could teach his captors everything from human military tactics to gunpowder weapons and other basic firearms.  Given just how many ideas had washed across the planet in the wake of the God-King’s defeat, it would be hard to be sure if one or more had been sown by a Russian advisor.

And we never found all the bodies, he thought, sourly.  Too many were simply lost in the final bloody hours of fighting.

“I understand,” he said.  

He cursed under his breath.  There was no way he had the authority to enter into a long-term agreement with Ivan, even if he’d had the force to back it up.  But not entering an agreement could be just as disastrous.  He’d come to realise, in the months since he’d first met the alien, that Ivan was willing to do whatever it took to protect his own people.  And, if he didn't, he would be removed.  His people might respect him, as one of the aristocrats who had forged a link between themselves and the British base, but they wouldn’t tolerate failure.

“We require your support,” Ivan said, again.  “We cannot risk being caught by superior force.”

Percy gritted his teeth.  Trying to put together a political map of Vesy had been a nightmare, even for the Russians; his best guess was that city-states from outside the God-King’s reign of terror were pressing against Ivan and the other survivors of that war.  They had intact armies and, presumably, gunpowder weapons of their own.  God knew the Russians had been lax about preventing the spread of knowledge about muskets and rifles - or cannon.  The Vesy might have been primitive, but they weren't stupid.  Duplicating Russian-designed weapons wouldn't take long.

And the God-King’s empire wasn't held together by anything stronger than naked force, he thought.  There’s nothing holding it together now.

He thought, rapidly.  The hell of it was that he had next to nothing to offer and he knew it all too well.  Ten Royal Marines, armed with modern weapons, could dominate the battlefield ... until they ran out of ammunition.  He didn't even have an orbital bombardment system he could call upon, if the shit hit the fan.  And none of the tactics he might have used, on Earth, to win time would be workable on Vesy.  There was certainly no way he could slip an assassin into an enemy city and shoot their leadership dead ...

“There are some ideas we could give you,” he said.  One of the Marines had dug up the plans for primitive hot air balloons, similar to the observation balloons that had been used in the late 19th century, but he wasn't sure if they would be any use to the Vesy.  More advanced weapons would take years to make.  “But I don’t have the resources to offer you more.”

Ivan didn't move - the Vesy stayed inhumanly still, when not moving deliberately - but he didn't seem pleased.  “We have supplied you with workers, with materials, with food,” the alien said.  “And yet you will not assist us in our time of need?”

“There will be assistance when the ship returns,” Percy said, although he had no idea if that was actually true.  It was quite possible that the World Court would agree to quarantine Vesy permanently, at least until the Vesy reached into space on their own.  “However, I have only limited supplies ...”

He stopped as his radio bleeped.  “Corporal, report to HQ,” Peerce said.  There was an urgency in his voice that Percy had never heard before, even when the shit was hitting the fan.  “I say again, report to HQ at once.”

“Excuse me,” Percy said.  “I need to run.”

Ivan nodded, mimicking the human expression.  The meeting room was not only outside the walls, it was designed to make both races as comfortable as possible.  Ivan would be able to relax until Percy returned, if he wished, or return to his city-state and resume the discussion later.  Percy nodded back, then hurried out the door and down towards the gateway leading into the fort.  Nothing seemed to have changed, he noted as he passed the guests and entered the large prefabricated building, but Peerce’s voice had sounded urgent.  Had a starship finally returned to Vesy?

“Corporal,” Peerce said, as Percy entered the compartment.  “The orbital satellites have picked up a number of ships heading to the planet.”

Percy nodded.  “Human ships?”

It would have been a stupid question, once.  It wasn't any longer.

“IFFs suggest they’re a mixture of American, French and Indian ships, with a handful that aren't broadcasting IFFs” Peerce said.  “There may be more; the orbital network isn’t designed to track ships beyond a couple of AUs.  The Indians seem to have the largest contingent; there are nine freighters, five warships and a starship of indeterminate design and function.  She might be a troop transporter.”

“Shit,” Percy said, as he checked the holographic display.  None of the ships were British, as far as he could tell, and he had a feeling they’d resent being told what to do by a mere corporal ... particularly one who had nothing to back up his orders.  If the newcomers wanted to land on the other side of the planet, there was nothing Percy could do to stop them.  “Send them the pre-planned greeting, then an invitation to land at Fort Knight.”

“We might find it hard to handle them all,” Peerce said.  “We don’t have the barracks or warehouses to cope with more than a small influx.”

“At least they’d have access to translators here,” Percy said, although he knew Peerce was right.  He couldn’t help feeling more than a little out of his depth.  Would it really have been so hard for a starship to be dispatched back to Vesy at once?  “We can offer to introduce them to the locals.”

There was a long pause.  “Picking up a signal from the Americans,” the operator said, after a moment.  “It’s relayed through the satellite network.”

Percy nodded.  “Let’s hear it.”

A dark-skinned man appeared in the display.  “This is Captain Samuel Johnston of USS Rhode Island,” he said.  “Thank you for your invitation to land at Fort Knight.  It will be our pleasure to join you on the surface as soon as possible.”

“Thank you,” Percy said.  “Welcome to Vesy.”

The American’s image vanished from the display.  Percy let out a sigh of relief; it looked as though the Americans, at least, were going to be reasonable.  But then, the Americans might not have access to the files from either Warspite or the Russian deserters.  They might feel it was better to make their first contacts with the Vesy through Fort Knight.  The next starship might not be so cooperative.  

“Picking up another signal,” the operator said.  “It's from one of the ships without an IFF.”

“Greetings,” a voice said.  There was no visual image.  “We represent the Society of Interstellar Brotherhood.  It is our intention to land on Vesy and assist our new brothers to reach for the stars.”

Percy groaned.  The Society of Interstellar Brotherhood had picketed Redford Barracks on Earth, back when he’d been stationed there.  He honestly hadn’t been able to understand why anyone would consider aliens to be brothers of men, not when the sole known alien race - at the time - had started a war and slaughtered millions of humans.  And then they’d started insisting that humanity intervene and save the Tadpoles from themselves or something along those lines.  Percy really hadn't paid too much attention.  The idea of humanity trying to do more than maintain the peace was laughable.

“Welcome to Vesy,” he said, carefully.  “I must inform you that all contacts with the Vesy are handled through Fort Knight, so please take a slot in orbit and await landing permission.”

“We have no intention of waiting before we make contact,” the voice said.  “You have no authority to deny us permission to land.”

Percy wondered, briefly, if he could ask the Americans to intervene.  But it would be something well about his pay grade ... and it could easily explode in his face, if it led to a diplomatic incident.  Instead, he thought fast.  There had to be an argument he could use to convince them to see sense.

“You will need translators to talk to the Vesy,” he said, after a moment.  “The only way to get them is to work through Fort Knight.  Of course, you could land elsewhere, but you would have to relearn their language for yourself and they might misinterpret your actions ...”

There was a long pause.  “We will work through Fort Knight, if we can land within a day,” the voice said, finally.  “Our ship isn't chartered indefinitely.”

Percy glanced at the data download - someone on the ship had had the sense to send their details, finally - and groaned.  They’d chartered an Israeli ship - and the Israelis were notoriously stubborn about defending their rights.  His half-formulated plan to take their shuttle, then seize their starship and hold the Brothers in orbit until more ships arrived from Earth would have to be abandoned.  It would cause a major diplomatic incident for nothing.

Peerce reached over and tapped the mute button.  “Bring them down here,” he advised, softly.  “We can hold them at Fort Knight if necessary.”

“Understood,” Percy said.  He untapped the button and cleared his throat.  “We will arrange living space for you at Fort Knight.  You should be able to land within a day, as you request.”

He sighed inwardly as the connection broke.  Fort Knight was large, but not large enough to host everyone.  They’d need to expand, which would make defending the fort even more of a nightmare.  God alone knew how many groundpounders the Americans had brought, but he couldn't simply hand the fort over to them ...

“Picking up a message from the Indians,” the operator said.  “They want to talk to whoever is in charge.”

Percy nodded.  Moments later, an Indian face appeared in the display.

“This is General Anjeet Patel,” he said.  His voice was curt, too curt.  “Fetch your commanding officer at once, boy.”

“I am in command,” Percy said, fighting down a flash of anger.  He hadn't been addressed in such tones of contempt since he’d started his early training.  “My superiors have yet to relieve me or send reinforcements.”

“How convenient for them,” Patel sneered.  “They can blame any diplomatic mistakes on an officer so young he has yet to learn how to shave.”

Percy forced his voice to remain calm.  “Welcome to Vesy,” he said.  Perhaps the best response to the Indian’s unpleasantness was to ignore it.  “Do you require living space at Fort Knight?”

The Indian puffed up.  “It is the official position of my government that the Vesy and no one else are masters of their homeworld,” he said.  “We do not recognise your claim to control orbital space, nor do we believe you have either the right or the ability to prevent us from forging alliances with alien factions.  Or do you wish to dispute this?”

“No,” Percy said, carefully.  The Indian was right; Percy simply didn’t have the ability to prevent anyone from landing wherever they chose.  “However, in line with Provision Seven of the Outer Space Treaty, please keep us informed of your movements.”

The Indian didn't seem inclined to argue that point.  Percy wasn't too surprised.  Provision Seven insisted that all spacefaring powers should notify the others of their movements, at least when moving through crowded orbital space.  Earth’s early days of expansion into space had been marred by the Cold War, where a rocket launch could easily be mistaken for the first strike in a nuclear war.  Since then, all powers had kept the other powers updated, even when the Outer Space Treaty had been largely superseded by the Solar Treaty.

And they won't want to set any precedents that could be used against them later, Percy thought.  Britain wasn't the only power that had an interest in Vesy.  Or we might retaliate elsewhere.

“We will land at once,” Patel said.  “Goodbye.”

His image vanished from the display.  Percy cursed under his breath, wondering just what the Indians were planning, then looked at Peerce.  The Sergeant seemed just as mystified as Percy himself.

“If Ivan wanted you to help him,” Peerce said finally, “the Indians might make him a better offer.”

Percy nodded.  Nine freighters was a significant investment ... and, judging from their ponderous movements as they settled into orbit, they were loaded to the gunwales.  God alone knew how long it would take the Indians to make contact and learn to speak the alien tongue - although it was quite likely they would find aliens who could speak either English or Russian - but once they did, they would definitely have something to trade.  Somehow, judging by Patel’s attitude, he had a feeling the Indians wouldn't hesitate to trade weapons in exchange for political influence.

“Picking up a shuttle launch,” the operator said.

“Track them,” Percy ordered.  The satellite net was pathetic, compared to the networks orbiting Earth, but they should be able to keep an eye on the Indians.  “Let me know where they’re going.”

It was nearly ten minutes before he had an answer.  “They’re heading to City #34,” the operator said.  “We don’t have any contact with them, as far as I know.”

Percy glanced at the map, then nodded.  City #34 was five hundred miles from Fort Knight, just past the edge of the God-King’s empire.  If that was a coincidence, he would eat his dress uniform cap.

“They learned something from the Russians,” Peerce commented, putting Percy’s thoughts into words.  “That cannot be a coincidence.”

“It looks that way,” Percy agreed.  The Indians would be making contact with city-states that had heard of off-worlders, but hadn't had any real contact with them or access to advanced weapons.  They’d be hungry for tech and the Indians would be happy to supply.  “It’s going to be a right mess.”

He sighed, then looked at the next wave of starships approaching the planet.  American, French, Chinese ... a hundred NGOs, corporations and media outlets ... and not a single British warship.  He’d lose control very quickly, if he’d even had it in the first place.  The Indians had probably broken the ice, simply by refusing to acknowledge his authority ...

“Keep in touch with as many of the newcomers as possible,” he ordered.  It wouldn't be long before Fort Knight gained a few thousand new citizens.  “And try to convince them to land here.”

But he knew, as he looked at the map, that it wasn't going to happen.