Fighting For The Crown

(Ark Royal, Book XVI)

Christopher G. Nuttall

Book One: Ark Royal
Book Two: The Nelson Touch
Book Three: The Trafalgar Gambit
Book Four: Warspite
Book Five: A Savage War of Peace
Book Six: A Small Colonial War
Book Seven: Vanguard
Book Eight: Fear God And Dread Naught
Book Nine: We Lead
Book Ten: The Longest Day
Book Eleven: The Cruel Stars
Book Twelve: Invincible
Book Thirteen: Para Bellum
Book Fourteen: The Right of the Line
Book Fifteen: The Lion and the Unicorn
Book Sixteen: Fighting For The Crown

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Cover by Justin Adams

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Cover Blurb

HMS Lion and HMS Unicorn have made it home from their first mission against the alien virus, opening the way for humanity to take the offensive.  Now, a major fleet is readying itself to depart into enemy space, intent on smashing the virus’s ability to wage war and destroy the threat once and for all.  And Captains Hammond and Campbell will take the lead.

But humanity itself is buckling under the strain of endless war.  The stresses of fighting are tearing the fleet apart.  And a very personal betrayal threatens to plunge the captains and their crews into a bitter feud, deep in alien territory.  The stakes could not be higher ...

... And the risk of total defeat has never been so great.

Prologue

From: Admiral Paul Mason, Director of Alpha Black, Special Projects
To: Admiral Susan Onarina, CO Operation Lightning Strike

Admiral Susan Onarina

As per your request, my department has spent the last two weeks conducting an extensive post-battle analysis of Operation Thunderchild.  This has not been an easy task.  The much-touted bioscanners were nowhere near as efficient as we were assured - surprise, surprise - and the urgent need for a retreat from the targeted system ensured a significant lack of late-stage data.  In short, there is a sizable question mark over both the data we collected and our conclusions and I would be remiss in my duties if I did not bring that to your attention.

However, a number of things can be said with a fair degree of certainty.

The BioBombs were less effective than we had hoped.  They certainly lacked the punch of an enhanced radiation weapon.  However, once the biological agent had established itself on the planetary surface it spread rapidly.  We believe it achieved effective continental saturation within two or three days of its deployment, destroying the virus’s chain of communication as it spread.  It took longer for the viral package within the infected hosts to break down, but it is clear that the BioBombs took their toll.  The infection was uncontainable without extreme measures.  We assume the virus was as reluctant to cut off a limb to save the body - if I may use a crude metaphor - as ourselves. 

It cannot be denied, as some officers pointed out, that the BioBombs are weapons of genocide.  The counter-viral package is far more effective, and dangerous, than the tailored viruses released on Earth during the Age of Unrest.  It is also clear that the virus is unable to counter the infection without doing immense damage to its organisation and communication.  In short, unless the virus finds a way to counter the threat, we can expect to eliminate the infection from our worlds in very short order.  This will, however, condemn the virus’s hosts to death.  Our attempts to save hosts under laboratory conditions have had mixed results.  We cannot offer any sort of guarantee the host will survive, even in ideal circumstances.  The infected hosts on occupied worlds are certain to die, if we release the BioBombs.  Frankly, if our backs were not already pressed firmly against the wall, I would urge the PM and the other world leaders not to deploy the BioBombs.  We will be killing millions so billions might live.  

That said, I am not sanguine about the virus’s inability to devise a response.  Biological weapons do not survive, obviously, in the vacuum of space.  The virus can rearrange its ships along more human lines, relying on communications networks and datanodes to handle matters rather than blending viral matter into the control systems.  We expect some degree of early awkwardness, if the virus tries, but it does have access to experts!  If nothing else, it can simply copy our designs and integrate human systems - and our electronic servants - into its fleet.  I don’t know if there would be some improvement in efficiency - the virus does not appear to have problems handling its fleets, despite relying on biological networks - but it would certainly make it harder to get the biobombs onboard.  The marines might have to storm the entire ship to wipe out the enemy presence.  It would be considerably easier to simply insert nuclear bombs, then detonate them as soon as the marines withdraw.

A more serious possibility is the virus copying the biobombs and deploying biological weapons of its own.  It has, so far, been reluctant to commit population-destroying atrocities - although it has shown a frightening lack of concern for civilian casualties - but that may change if it feels truly threatened.  As strange as it may seem, the virus may well regard its losses so far as effectively immaterial; a real threat to its very survival may provoke a nastier response.  We simply don’t know.  But, as I said, our backs are against the wall.  We have no choice.  We must use every weapon at our command to win before we lose everything.

It is my very strong feeling, Susan, that we should launch Operation Lightning Strike as quickly as possible.

Yours,

Paul.

Chapter One

“Do you hear that?”

Richard Tobias Gurnard turned over, momentarily unsure of where he was.  In bed, with Marigold ... they were in London, he recalled suddenly, visiting the capital city before they reported back to HMS Lion.  He sat up, blinking in confusion as the emergency lighting came on.  The hotel room, a grotty singleton that was all they could afford, had an air of unreality, as if he was still asleep.  He glanced at his wristcom and frowned.  It was the middle of the night and yet ...

He felt a frisson of fear as he heard the scraping sound in the corridor outside.  The hotel was relatively quiet, he’d been assured; the manager had made a point of assuring his guests that the walls were completely soundproofed.  It wasn’t the sort of place that served breakfast in bed, or did anything beyond the bare minimum.  The peeling paint on the walls, and the scent in the toilet, suggested the owner simply didn’t give a damn.  And yet ...

“I can hear an alarm,” Marigold said.  She sat up next to him, arms crossed over her breasts.  “Can’t you?”

Tobias listened, carefully.  The alarm was very faint, if indeed it was an alarm.  He wished, suddenly, that he’d paid more attention to the emergency procedures displayed on the wall.  His CO would have a lot of sharp things to say, if he knew; he’d insisted the gunboat pilots had to learn as much as possible, even if - technically- they didn’t have to know anything outside the scope of their duties.  Tobias felt his ears prickle as the scraping sound grew louder, wondering - suddenly - if the manager was trying to sneak into the room.  It was possible.  He’d certainly heard a lot of rumours about cheap hotels in London.  And yet ...

The wristcom bleeped an alert.  Tobias glanced at it and froze.  BIOLOGICAL CONTAMINATION DETECTED, LONDON.  Sheer horror held him paralysed for a long chilling moment.  Biological contamination meant that someone had deployed a biological weapon ... no, that the virus had gotten loose in London.  He remembered the sensor recordings from the previous mission and shuddered, helplessly.  If the entire city had been infected, they were screwed.  They had no weapons, nothing beyond their masks.  He hadn’t thought to bring an emergency kit.  It had never crossed his mind he’d need it.

Marigold swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, hastily donning her clothes.  Tobias followed suit, eying the wristcom as if it were a poisonous snake.  He wanted to believe it was a false alarm, but ... his mind raced, trying to determine what they should do.  The room wasn’t airtight.  It certainly wasn’t isolated from the remainder of the hotel.  A viral outbreak in the right place - or, rather, the wrong place - would spread through the hotel very quickly.  The scraping sound grew louder.  Tobias cursed under his breath, wishing - for the first time - that Colin had accompanied them.  His former bully turned marine would have been very helpful in a tight spot.  But Tobias had never even thought of inviting him.

“Someone is right outside,” Marigold said, so quietly she was almost subvocalising.  “That lock isn’t going to hold up for long.”

Tobias nodded, curtly.  He was brave, as brave as brave could be, behind a computer terminal ... or, he admitted to himself, when he put his hands on his gunboat’s controls.  It was easy, somehow, to pretend he was still playing a game even when he flew the gunboat into combat with a fleet of enemy ships.  But in the real world, he knew he was a coward.  He’d put on some muscle since joining the navy - Marigold and his CO had convinced him to spend more time in the gym - but he was all too aware he couldn’t push anyone around.  Sweat trickled down his back as he donned his mask.  No one, absolutely no one, had a legitimate reason to break into their room in the middle of the night.  The manager - or the police - would bang on the door, then wait for the occupants to open it.  Whoever was on the far side, they weren’t friendly.  

The lights went out.  Darkness, warm darkness, enveloped them.  Tobias sucked in a breath as Marigold activated her wristcom, using it as a makeshift torch.  They hadn’t thought to bring flashlights either.  Tobias hesitated, then picked up a chair as he heard the lock starting to give way.  It wasn’t an electronic lock.  The lock and key were something out of a period drama.  Tobias suspected, in hindsight, that it wasn’t as charming as he’d thought.  The lock could be opened by anyone who had the key, a copy of the key or the tools and skill to simply pick the lock.

He took his mask and pressed it against his face, then held the chair at the ready and waited.  In hindsight, he should have brought his pistol.  Military personnel were required to be armed at all times, in a world that could shift from peaceful harmony to screaming chaos in the blink of an eye.  His CO would probably scold him for not being armed ... Tobias prayed, as the lock clicked, that the CO would have the chance.  The door opened, so violently Tobias almost dropped the chair.  A shadowy figure rushed into the room, running towards Marigold.  No, towards the light.  Tobias panicked, bringing the chair down on top of the figure’s head.  It crashed to the ground, then kept crawling forward like a giant crab.  Tobias stared in disbelief - blood was leaking from a nasty wound to the head - and then brought the chair down again.  The figure - the zombie - didn’t seem to notice.

Tobias realised his mistake, a second too late.  The zombie infection was in complete control of the host’s body.  Crushing the zombie’s head wouldn’t kill the host.  The host had died when the infection had taken root, then built control structures within the body.  He felt a stab of pity as the zombie reared up, hands lashing out towards him.  He kicked the zombie as hard as he could - not hard - and then brought the chair down again and again, breaking the zombie’s legs.  It wasn’t enough to do more than slow it down.

“That was the manager,” Marigold said.  The man had once been jovial - and sleazy enough to make Tobias want to take a shower after shaking his hand.  Now, his body was a mangled pulp that was somehow, absurdly, still trying to advance on them.  “We have to get out of here.”

“Got it,” Tobias agreed.  He checked that his wallet was still in his pocket - he had a feeling he’d need ID, when they ran into the police or the military - then keyed his wristcom.  There was no update, nothing to indicate the authorities were already moving to contain the threat.  He hoped - prayed - they were.  They should be.  The military had plenty of experience deploying troops to counter everything from riots and terrorism to outright viral infections.   “Where do we go?

“Out of here,” Marigold said.  “Quickly.”

Tobias nodded as he made his way to the door and peered outside.  The corridor was dark and silent.  His imagination insisted it was as dark and silent as the grave.  He told that part of him to shut the fuck up, then forced himself to think.  The hotel wasn’t that big.  If the manager had been infected ... it was possible the other guests had also been infected.  If there were other guests ... it was that sort of hotel.  Tobias cursed under his breath.  He didn’t have any night-vision gear, no way to see in the dark.  And even if he could, the viral particles were too small to see with the naked eye.  He touched his mask, checking - again and again - that it was firmly in place.  Breathing deeply might be enough to get him infected.  He wouldn’t even know until it was far too late.

And the moment they see our lights, they’ll know we’re there, he thought.  The virus didn’t even need to do that.  If there was a sufficient concentration of viral matter in the air, the virus would be aware of their presence even if it couldn’t infect them.  He wanted to go back to the room, barricade the door and wait for the police, but he knew that might just get them killed - or worse.  The zombie behind them was - somehow - still alive.  We have to move fast.

He glanced at Marigold, her face pale and worried, then told himself to be brave as he inched down the corridor.  The carpet felt soft under his feet, their passage making no sound at all.  He thought, just for a moment, that he could hear men and machines in the distance - helicopter blades clattering against the humid summer air - but the sound didn’t seem to be coming any closer.  Ice washed down his spine as he remembered the reports from the last mission.  The infected world had been hot, very hot.  The virus had been able to survive in the open air, to the point that opening one’s mask was effectively committing suicide.  He found it impossible to believe the virus could last indefinitely in the British weather - it would rain sooner rather than later, if he was any judge - but it could do a lot of damage before it died.  Someone who got infected, without ever knowing they were infected, could do one hell of a lot of damage before they were tracked down.

The air grew warmer as they reached the stairwell and looked up and down.  Tobias tried to think what to do.  In a video game, they would head upwards and find their way to the roof and then jump from rooftop to rooftop until they reached safety.  The real world was much less obliging.  Colin and his comrades might be able to get out of the trap that way, but Tobias had no illusions about his lack of physical prowess.  He’d always been picked last for games ... he put the memory out of his mind as he started to make his way down to the ground floor.  The stairwell was cramped, narrow enough to make him feel almost claustrophobic.  The darkness seemed to reach out and touch him, as if monsters were lurking within the shadows.  He shuddered, helplessly, promising himself he’d move to a lunar city or an asteroid settlement as soon as his enlistment was up.  His country hadn’t treated him very kindly.

Lights flared, outside.  Tobias flinched, hefting the chair as if he expected someone to come crashing through the windows.  He’d known the windows were there, but ... he stared into the darkness.  The lights just added to the air of unreality.  He forced himself to move faster, reaching the bottom of the stairs as the sound of helicopters grew louder.  The building rattled as the aircraft flew over the hotel.  It felt as if they were only an inch or two above the rooftops.  

Marigold shined the makeshift torch ahead of them, then froze.  A body was lying on the ground, a child ... Tobias stumbled backwards, swallowing desperately to keep from throwing up inside the mask.  The body was a shifting mass of ... he recoiled, unwilling to look at the figure.  It had to have been a child, but the body was so badly warped that he couldn’t tell if it had been male or female.  The darkness swallowed the body as they picked up speed, hurrying towards the door.  It was closed and locked.  Tobias gritted his teeth, suddenly very sure there was something nasty right behind them, and hit the door as hard as he could.  The lock shattered.  Tobias blinked, then stumbled outside.  Blinding lights struck them a second later, so bright his eyes hurt even after he squeezed them tightly shut.  Marigold whimpered.

“DO NOT MOVE,” a voice bellowed.  “DO NOT MOVE!”

Tobias froze.  His eyes were still closed, but he could hear men running towards them.  The light dimmed suddenly.  He risked opening his eyes and saw three men in heavy-duty HAZMAT suits.   Their eyes were hidden behind their masks.  He shuddered, suddenly all too aware that the troops could be infected themselves.  And yet ... he couldn’t move.  He could see more troops on the other side of the road, guns pointed directly at Tobias and Marigold.  He wanted to scream at them, to insist they were pointing their guns at friends, but he couldn’t say a word.  The troops didn’t know any better.  Tobias himself didn’t know any better.  The virus might have already gotten its hooks in them.

He offered no resistance as they were shackled, then pushed towards a large open-topped lorry.  The troops pressed samplers against their necks, testing their blood for any traces of infection.  They relaxed, slightly, when the tests came back negative.  Tobias wanted to suggest they be unshackled, but the words caught in his mouth.  A handful of other people were already in the lorry, their arms and legs shackled to metal railings.  They looked as shell-shocked as Tobias himself.  The troops half-pushed, half-lifted him into the lorry and shackled him beside the others.  Marigold followed a second later.  Tobias gritted his teeth as the UV lights grew stronger.  In theory, if one of them were infected, the infection wouldn’t spread to the rest.  In theory ...

The virus managed to get a foothold in the city, he thought, numbly.  A pair of helicopters flew overhead, spotlights stabbing down at the ground.  What else has it done?

The lorry lurched into life.  Tobias gritted his teeth as the vehicle rumbled down the eerie street.  The sky was still dark, but the spotlights lit up the community with a blinding light that cast out the shadows.  There were hundreds - perhaps thousands - of troops on the streets, all wearing masks if they weren’t wearing HAZMAT gear.  A row of AFVs sat beside a barricade, one clearly thrown up in a hurry.  Tobias shivered.  He’d walked past the barricade only a few short hours ago, back when the world had made sense.  The barricade hadn’t even been there.  London had shifted from an old city, repaired and rebuilt after the Troubles and the Bombardment, into a Lovecraftian nightmare, a horror from the days biological weapons had been deployed by terrorists and rogue states alike.  He’d heard the stories - he’d studied the official version in history class and the unofficial version on the dark web - but he’d never really understood the reality.  It had been nothing more than history to him, until now.  He shuddered, again and again, as they drove past more troops.  They looked ready for anything.  Tobias devoutly hoped that was true.

“STAY IN YOUR HOMES.”  A police car drove past, blue lights flashing as the message was repeated time and time again.  The racket was so loud Tobias was morbidly certain no one, absolutely no one, was still asleep.  They’d be having nightmares long after the night was over.  “STAY IN YOUR HOMES.  STAY OFF THE STREETS.  IF YOU FEEL UNWELL, CALL US IMMEDIATELY ...”

“No one will listen,” an older man predicted.  He looked to be the sort of person Tobias had disliked once upon a time, a schoolyard bully grown up into a manager bully.  His walrus moustache wriggled as he spoke.  “They’ll all be trying to get out before the infection gets them.”

Tobias said nothing, but he feared the older man was right.  The infection had clearly gotten its hooks into the district.  He’d heard rumours about emergency plans, from the careful evacuation and sterilization of the infected area to its complete destruction by nuclear weapons.  Tobias doubted that any British Government would authorise the use of nuclear weapons on British cities, but the government might be desperate.  The Prime Minister was in a precarious position.  Tobias didn’t follow politics and even he knew that.  Decisive action against the virus, at the cost of hundreds of innocent lives, would either boost the man’s career into the stratosphere or utterly destroy it.  In this day and age, it was hard to tell which.

The vehicle rattled to a halt.  Tobias watched, grimly, as the soldiers unhooked the rear of the lorry and started dragging the prisoners out.  He’d been through mil-grade decontamination procedures before, when there hadn’t been any real threat.  The process had been strict, but not that strict.  This time, they could take nothing for granted.  Tobias doubted they’d see their clothes again, after they went through decontamination.  It was rather more likely that everything they wore - and carried - would be incinerated.  The military wouldn’t take chances, not now.

“I’m not infected,” the older man protested, as he was half-carried out of the lorry.  “I’m not infected!”

“Be quiet,” a soldier growled.

“Do you know who I am?”  The older man glared at the soldier, trying to stand upright in shackles.  It would have been comical if it hadn’t been so serious.  “I’m the managing director of Drills Incorporated and ...”

“I said, be quiet,” the soldier repeated.  He hefted his shockrod menacingly.  “You’ll be checked as quickly as possible and released as soon as we’re sure you’re uninfected.”

Tobias kept his thoughts to himself as the older man quietened.  He wanted to protest, but he understood.    The soldiers really couldn’t take anything for granted.  For all they knew, the entire lorry-load of prisoners was infected.  They had to be careful, very careful.  And if that meant treating civilians - as well as Tobias and Marigold - like dangerous terrorists ...

They don’t have a choice, Tobias thought, glumly.  They don’t have any way to be sure we’re not infected.  Nor do we.

Chapter Two

“They’re saying it’s the end of days.”

Admiral Lady Susan Onarina kept her face expressionless as the official car made its way through a military checkpoint before turning onto Whitehall and heading towards Number Ten Downing Street.  The driver, who’d been a cabbie before being recalled to the colours in the wake of the latest string of disasters, had kept up a cheerfully irrelevant conversation that - under other circumstances - would have charmed her.  Some of her relatives were cabbies, men and women who specialised in putting their passengers at ease as they drove through the winding streets of the capital city.  But now, with a viral infection blighting London itself, she found it hard to listen.  The world had just shifted on its axis.  Again.  As a younger officer, she’d wondered why her superiors had been slow to adapt to a whole new world; now, older and wiser, she thought she understood.  Everything she’d known before the war had begun was now obsolete.

The car passed through the gates and came to a halt in front of Ten Downing Street.  A uniformed policeman hurried to open the door for her, allowing Susan to bid the cabbie goodbye and clamber onto the street.  Her skin prickled, a grim reminder that she was under close observation.  She might be a Peer of the Realm, and a Lady of the Garter, but she couldn’t be trusted completely.  No one could, not when the virus could turn a loyal officer into an unwitting traitor overnight.  It rankled, even though she understood.  She’d worked long and hard to overcome the stigma of her birth, skin colour and everything else that had threatened to bar her from command rank.  To be distrusted so openly ...

It happens to everyone, she thought, as the doorman welcomed her into the building.  A pair of guards, just inside the entrance, pressed a sampler against her neck to check her blood.  It hurt, more than she’d expected.  They’d improved upon the design.  She made a face as she passed through a set of sealed doors, into the next chamber.  They’ve been tightening the defences ever since they discovered the virus could infect the brain - and the brain alone.

“Admiral,” Simon Portage said.  The PM’s aide nodded politely.  “He’s waiting for you.”

“Thank you,” Susan said.  She knew she was running late, although the PM was unlikely to make something of it.  She’d half-expected the meeting to be cancelled.  The PM had ordered COBRA convened, according to the BBC; he’d be expected to chair the meeting personally, even though there was little he could do.  He’d given the right orders and all he could reasonably do now was wait.  “Just take me straight through.”

She glanced at her reflection in the mirror as they climbed up the stairs and walked through two more checkpoints.  Her skin was as dark as ever, her hair threatening to turn grey under the weight of the world.  She wasn’t the young woman she’d been, back when the hardest task she’d faced had been to break into a world dominated by the Old Boys Network and riven with suspicion and fear of anyone who couldn’t trace their bloodline back to the Norman Conquest.  One didn’t have to be aristocratic, perish the thought, but one had to be British.  The hypocrisy had irked her, once upon a time.  The Royal Family was German in origin, something that had been more than a little embarrassing during the world wars.  Now, she would have sold her soul to go back to those days.  The entire world wasn’t at risk of a fate worse than death.

The PM’s office had always struck her as surprisingly small, for all its importance.  It was decorated in a style that had been gone out of fashion long before the Troubles, although the original owners would have been alternatively baffled and horrified by the terminal resting on the heavy wooden desk and the security screens worked into the walls and windows.   There was something unassuming about the entire building - it was hard, sometimes, to believe that it was the heart of a Great Power - but she had to admit it appealed to her.  It kept its occupants humble.

Prime Minister Arthur Harrison rose to greet her.  He was a middle-aged man, going prematurely grey under the stresses of his office.  Susan disliked politics, but - in her post - she had no choice but to follow them.  She knew Harrison’s position was weaker than it seemed, despite the War Cabinet and the Government of National Unity.  The viral outbreak in London had made the government look like fools, even though it had been swiftly contained.  If matters didn’t get any better, it was quite possible the government would fracture as the opposition parties struggled to avoid a share of the blame.  Susan understood the system - she appreciated that it worked better than some foreign systems - but she wasn’t blind to its weaknesses.  No one really wanted to take collective responsibility - otherwise known as sharing the blame - for anything.

“Susan,” Harrison said.  He shook her hand, firmly.  “Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for seeing me,” Susan replied.   “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings.”

The PM grimaced.  “Please, take a seat,” he said, indicating the armchairs in the corner.  “We have much to discuss.”

Susan sat and composed herself as Harrison ordered tea.  His accent was so strongly aristocratic that, once upon a time, it would have made her clench her teeth.  Even now, it grated.  She knew from experience that not all aristocrats were worthless pimples on the body politic - technically, she was an aristocrat herself - but it was hard to shake the old prejudices.  No doubt they felt the same way about her.  She told herself, firmly, that it was unfair to blame them for their ancestors.  She’d been judged by hers often enough to know how profoundly unfair it was.

A maid appeared with a tea tray, which she placed on a small table next to the armchairs and withdrew as silently as she’d come.  Harrison sat, his fingers lingering on the teapot as he counted the seconds.  Susan watched, feeling torn between amusement and grim understanding.  She’d grown up in a world of instant tea and coffee, but ... she had to admit there was something about the ritual that was almost soothing.  The PM was using the pause to gather his thoughts, without seeming rude.  She smiled inwardly and waited as he poured the tea, then held out the biscuit tray.  He needed the pause.  If she was any judge, the entire world was demanding answers.  And there were none to be had.

Not yet, she told herself.  The viral package had spread quickly, too quickly.  That bothered her.  The virus presumably understood its cellular structure a great deal better than the human xenospecialists.  If it had found a way to survive England’s weather, and spread right across the globe, the war was within shouting distance of being lost.  If Lightning Strike fails, we may have to start preparing for a full-scale evacuation of Earth.

She glanced at her teacup.  It wasn’t going to happen.  There was no way they could evacuate an entire planet.  The combined carrying capacity of every starship in human service wouldn’t even scratch the surface.  Susan had seen some of the emergency plans, the ones drawn up to meet a threat no one had ever really believed existed.  Their most optimistic estimates suggested that only a small percentage of the planet’s population could be saved.

The PM took a sip of his tea, then cleared his throat.  “We don’t have much time, as I’m sure you’re aware,” he said.  “Can we move to the point?”

Susan nodded, concealing her relief.  She was well aware of the urgency, but she was also aware that most politicians preferred not to come straight to the point.  There were political implications to everything, even something as simple as ordering dinner.  The pettiness of the political mind, particularly a mind belonging to someone who would never be offered a seat on the cabinet or party leadership committee, could never be overstated.   And this was something with real political implications.  If the PM made the wrong call, or even the right call if things went wrong, it would blow up in his face and destroy his career.

If there’s anyone left to land the fatal blow, Susan mused.  British political history was full of elder statesmen who’d told serving prime ministers that it was time for them to go - sometimes overtly, sometimes not - but that rather depended on parliament surviving long enough to do it.  We could lose the war overnight if the operation goes badly wrong.

“Yes, Prime Minister,” she said.  She straightened, putting her cup to one side so she could rest her hands in her lap.  “Operation Thunder Child was a moderate success.  The biobombs were effective, although not as effective as we had hoped.  Given the nature of the viral command and control system, the virus would be faced with a serious problem if the counter-virus got a solid foothold.  It would either have to shatter the command network itself, thus weakening its ability to coordinate operations, or risk losing everything to the counter-virus.”

“It would have to cut off its nose to spite its face,” the PM said, quietly.

“More like cut off its own arm to keep the infection from spreading,” Susan said.  She’d read the reports from the bioweapon research labs.  A handful of researchers had faced the blunt choice between mutilating themselves or being infected and sentenced to almost certain death.  The thought was enough to make her shudder.  The idea of cutting off her own arm ... she knew she was no coward, but she honestly wasn’t sure she could do it.  She wouldn’t know until it was too late.  “The virus doesn’t think the way we do, Prime Minister, but we find it hard to believe that mutilating itself wouldn’t cause some qualms.”

The Prime Minister nodded, slowly.  “Is it even intelligent, as we understand the term?”

“We don’t know,” Susan said.  “It’s certainly capable of reading memories from infected hosts and using them against us.  That suggests a certain intelligence, but it hasn’t made any move to open communications or even demand a surrender.  Opinion is divided on why it hasn’t tried to come to terms with us.  One group thinks the virus knows we wouldn’t surrender, another thinks we just haven’t hurt it badly enough to force it to come to the negotiations table.”

She grimaced.  She’d played plenty of computer games, as a schoolgirl, where the player just couldn’t win until she’d hunted down and destroyed the last of the AI-controlled units.  The battle had been fought and won, but the AI had refused to admit defeat.  It hadn’t had a hope of winning and yet it had prolonged the battle for hours, forcing her to search the entire level for the last remaining enemy unit.  Human opponents were far easier to defeat.  They tended to accept that a battle had been lost and surrender, then insist on restarting the game.  The virus didn’t seem to be capable of admitting defeat either.  It had certainly never made any attempt to surrender.

“It isn’t as if it could offer reasonable terms,” the PM said.  He sipped his tea, thoughtfully.  “I assume you want to proceed with Lightning Strike.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Susan said.  “When the operation was first discussed, it was one of a multitude of options for later consideration.  There was no sense that it was any more urgent than any of the other possible operations.  Now, however, things have changed.  Long-range survey missions have revealed that the virus ...”

“I’ve been briefed,” the PM said, curtly.  “The Admiralty was divided on the merits of the operation.”

“It was a risky concept, when it was first discussed,” Susan said.  “Now, it may be our only hope.”

The Prime Minister said nothing for a long moment.  Susan understood.  The buck stopped with him, him and the war cabinet and GATO.  The Global Alliance Treaty Organisation would have the final call, on paper, but everyone knew that the PM could have said no - and refused to allow British forces to take part - if he’d wished.  There would be enough blame to go around, Susan reflected, if there was anyone left to point the finger.  Operation Lightning Strike promised either total victory… or defeat.  There was no middle ground.

“You are sure about the survey reports?”  The PM sounded quietly desperate.  “And about the need for such an immense commitment?”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Susan said.  “In theory, we could carry out phase one with only a squadron of warships.  We could handle it ourselves.  In practice, we’d need a major deployment if we wanted to move straight to phase two.  The window of opportunity will not remain open for long.”

“If you manage to open it at all,” the PM pointed out.  “The virus must be aware of the dangers.”

Susan felt a hot flash of irritation, which she hastily suppressed.  The red teams at the Admiralty had been working overtime, trying to list all the ways Lightning Strike I and II could go horrifically wrong.    It was their job, and she didn’t fault them for drawing up contingency plans, but ... she resisted the urge to shake her head.  In her experience, there was a difference between considering the worst that could happen and allowing oneself to be hypnotised by it.  There were always risks to everything, including doing nothing.  The virus wasn’t a normal opponent.  There was no hope of peace.

And if only one of us can survive, she thought sourly, I will do everything in my power to ensure it’s us.

“We don’t know for sure,” she admitted.  “Prime Minister, carrying out phase one will win us some time, even if we cannot move directly to phase two.  And we are desperately short of time.”

The PM nodded, curtly.  He’d have to make the calls himself.  There were some things that simply couldn’t be left to the Foreign Office mandarins.  They had their uses, but they also had a tendency to soften diplomatic messages until they no longer carried their original urgency.  Susan had studied history.  A great many problems might have been avoided if ultimatums hadn’t been watered down by the diplomats.  She smiled at the thought.  It was equally possible the problems might have been made a great deal worse.  Very few governments could afford to back down at gunpoint, for fear it would give their opponents ideas.

They should understand what’s at stake, she thought.  The Great Powers often disliked each other, but they’d learnt the hard way that they had to work together.  Humanity was surrounded by alien races, some of them extremely hostile.  The Great Powers had to hang together or hang separately.  There was no choice.  London wasn’t the only city that suffered a biological attack.

“If the GATO powers agree to back the plan, I’m sure the war cabinet will also agree,” the Prime Minister said.  “However, it may take some time to organise the deployment.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” Susan said.  “Time is not on our side.  If the virus manages to deploy its forces before we mount the operation, we’ll be staring down the barrel of a gun.”

“I know,” the Prime Minister said.  “But if the operation fails, or if it even works a little too well, we’ll be cut off from our ships.  And that would be disastrous, too.”

Susan nodded.  “We have contingency plans, but something must be left to chance.”

“And no warship can do very wrong that fires on the enemy,” the Prime Minister misquoted, dryly.  He’d have studied Nelson in school, just like Susan herself.  The post-Troubles government had no time for suggestions that Nelson, a great naval hero, had been a cad, a bounder, an adulterer and father of an illegitimate child.  “I dislike relying on luck.  It has a habit of being unreliable.”

He put his cup on the tray, signalling the interview was over.  “I’ll speak to the world leaders,” he said.  “For now, you are authorised to begin planning for the deployment on the assumption they’ll agree.  If they don’t ... you can proceed with phase one.”

“There’d be no way we can move to phase two,” Susan warned.  “Not alone.  Not unless we commit the entire navy to the mission.”

“Which isn’t going to happen,” the PM said.  “There’s no way we could authorise such a deployment.”

“No, Prime Minister,” Susan agreed.  “However, without phase two ...”

The PM stood.  “I understand the risks,” he said, as Susan stood too.  “I’ll do everything in my power to convince the rest of the world to join us.  If not ... we can at least win some time.”

“But not enough,” Susan said.  “It won’t take the virus long to rebuild.”

“It really is terrifyingly efficient,” the PM said.  “If only we had such budgets ...”

Susan nodded as the PM’s aide materialised at her shoulder, ready to show her out.  The virus had no need, as far as anyone could tell, to provide even a basic standard of living to its hosts.  It didn’t even seem to care about them.  Rotting bodies didn’t matter, once the virus had built its control structures within the walking corpses.  And that meant it could devote everything to making war.  Susan shuddered as she was escorted back to her car.  The virus didn’t need a bigger industrial base than the human race.  It just had to commit it all to war production.

She took a breath as she stepped into the warm summer air.  The air stank faintly of disinfectant, a grim reminder that London had been scarred by the virus.  And that nowhere was truly safe ...

The driver had been right, she decided as she climbed into the car.  It was the end of days.

Chapter Three

“They’re saying that all of London is gone,” some dimwit said.  “And that it’s just a matter of time before the virus gets here.”

Captain the Honourable Lord Thomas Hammond gritted his teeth, trying to remember the dimwit’s name.  The man was a few years older than him, just old enough to ensure Thomas hadn’t had the pleasure of knowing him at school or university, but still ... if he’d been invited to the party, Thomas should know him.  Or maybe not.  It had been Lady Charlotte Hammond, Thomas’s wife, who’d put the entire party together on short notice.  She’d done everything, from hiring the servants to dispatching invitations to everyone who was anyone in the aristocracy.  Thomas was sure she’d even sent invitations to aristocrats who physically couldn’t attend.  They might have a good excuse - military service was practically compulsory, for aristocrats and commoners alike - but Thomas was damn sure they’d remember not being invited.  It was the kind of social faux pas that could be relied upon to spark an entire string of demented feuds.

It was a great deal simpler when we settled such matters with swords, he thought.  The idea of cutting the dimwit’s head off was growing more and more attractive by the second.  It probably helped cut down on insults and suchlike, too.

He scowled, inwardly, as the man went on and on, talking endlessly about a subject he knew nothing about.  The dimwit didn’t know the slightest thing about the virus, let alone how it spread.  The party itself would have been cancelled at short notice, if the virus had blanketed the entire country.  Thomas - and everyone else - would have been infected.  The virus didn’t care for parties or anything, really, beyond spreading as far as it could.  It certainly wouldn’t bother to uphold the society Thomas had sworn to defend.

“The government should be telling us more,” the dimwit continued.  “We run the country.”

Thomas sighed, inwardly.  He had to admit the lack of information was troubling - the BBC’s broadcasts had been long on exhortations to remain calm and short on actual data - but he was all too aware that unfriendly ears might be listening.  No one was entirely sure of just how much the virus understood, when it intercepted human transmissions, but there was no point in taking chances.  Better to assume that everything broadcast in the clear was intercepted and relayed to the alien homeworld than wind up being surprised by the virus knowing something it shouldn’t.

Not that there was much more on the military channels, he mused.  He’d tried to access the military datanet as soon as he’d heard the news, and he’d checked back throughout the day, but his clearance wasn’t high enough to get more than the very basics.  Army personnel had been recalled to their garrisons, naval personnel were expected to sit on their arses and do nothing.  That doesn’t bode well for the future.

He allowed his eyes to wander over the crowd as the dimwit wittered on and on.  His lips thinned in disapproval as he spotted a handful of army officers, all of whom should be elsewhere.  They were probably useless beancounters, rather than officers who led men into battle, but still ... a good organiser would probably be very helpful in London.  Beyond them, there was the usual mixture of older women, debs and a smattering of young men intent on courting the girls.  There were fewer of them than Thomas had expected.  The war had taken many young men from their homes and thrown them into the storm ...

A middle-aged woman caught his eye.  Thomas turned from the dimwit and marched towards her.  Charlotte would make him pay for that later, he was sure, but he found it hard to care.  A few more moments of listening to the babble would have him contemplating homicide ... or, perhaps, retreating to his rooms far too early in the evening.  Charlotte wouldn’t be happy about that either.  Leaving the party wasn’t a harmless little prank like spiking the drinks.  It would be a sign he simply didn’t care about the guests.

And I don’t, Thomas thought, crossly.  He had no objection to the real work that came with his title, what little he had to do personally.  Charlotte ran the estate while he was on active duty and did it very well.  The parties, on the other hand, were just boring.  Thomas would almost sooner have been a midshipman again.  At least he’d done something useful with his time.  Does anything that happens at this party truly matter?

“My Lord,” Lady Bracknell said.  She had a large handbag under one arm, something that had always amused Thomas more than he could say.  “I trust you’re having a pleasant evening?”

“It has its moments,” Thomas said.  He spotted a waitress carrying a tray of drinks across the room and sighed, inwardly.  Getting thoroughly drunk would make the evening go quicker, but there would be hell to pay afterwards.  “And yourself?”

“I must say you always put on the best parties,” Lady Bracknell said.  “My husband was quite impressed.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Thomas lied.  He was fairly sure she was lying, too.  Lord Bracknell lived for hunting and nothing else, as far as he could tell.  He wouldn’t enjoy the party any more than Thomas did.  “And how is your son coping with his new career?”

“He says his captain is a very understanding man,” Lady Bracknell said.  “He’s already made First Middy.”

“Impressive,” Thomas said.  Lady Bracknell’s son wasn’t that senior, was he?  It was unlikely he had enough time in grade to outrank the rest of the middies.  A toadying captain, promoting a well-connected young man above the rest?  Or was he doing Lady Bracknell’s son a disservice?  It was hard to believe, sometimes, that his own little girls were adults in their own right.  Part of him would always think of them as children.  “I’m sure that speaks well of him.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Lady Bracknell said.  She put a hand on his arm, steering him into a corner.  “I wanted to discuss a possible match between my son and your daughter.”

Thomas called on all his years of naval service to keep his face carefully blank.  “I think that’s something best discussed with my daughter in person,” he said.  Charlotte would have mentioned it, wouldn’t she, if someone had been sniffing around for a marriage alliance.  He’d known it was coming, but it was still a shock.  “And perhaps in a more private time.”

“He’s due to get a week’s leave, next month,” Lady Bracknell said.  “He could meet your daughter ...”

Thomas had to smile.  “Which daughter?”

“It does not matter to us,” Lady Bracknell said.  Thomas couldn’t tell if she remembered either of his daughters or not.  “We’re interested in a marriage alliance.”

“I shall discuss it with my wife and daughters,” Thomas said, stiffly.  “Have you discussed it with your son?”

Lady Bracknell looked blank.  Thomas sighed inwardly, feeling a stab of sympathy for the young man.  It had been a long time since he’d met the brat, long enough to recall him as a teenager rather than a grown adult.  He made a mental note to discuss the matter with his daughters first, before his wife got wind of the affair.  Their match had worked out well, he supposed, but they’d been lucky.  He cared for her.  He wasn’t sure, at times, if he loved her.  But then, marriages amongst the aristocracy weren’t meant to be about love.

She probably hasn’t even told him about her plans, he thought.  She’s deciding his future for him, leaving him in the dark as long as possible.

“We’ll discuss the matter later,” he said, hoping she’d drop it and knowing she wouldn’t.  Not yet, perhaps not ever.  Elizabeth and Lucille were heirs to one of the largest fortunes in England.  Elizabeth would inherit the estate itself - that was entailed, ensuring it couldn’t be broken into smaller chunks - but Lucille would hardly be destitute.  “And then we’ll be in touch.”

His stomach churned as Lady Bracknell strode away, every inch the matriarch.  Thomas wondered, idly, if she’d discussed the matter with her husband, let alone her son.  It was very typical for social matrons to march ahead, daring anyone to be so unbearably rude as to say no.  Thomas had no patience for them and yet ... he would have to ensure his girls married well.  His lips quirked.  If he recommended a young man to his daughters, either of his daughters, it would probably prejudice them against him.  He made a mental note to check the young man’s record.  His captain might not write down anything too dreadful - Lady Bracknell and her clan had a long reach - but Thomas was quite experienced at reading between the lines.  If nothing else, he could take the man out for a drink and ask him questions completely off the record.  He might get some honest answers if the captain thought he could speak freely.

The dreadful evening wore on.  Thomas forced himself to be polite to a couple of retired admirals, both of whom had served their time during the First Interstellar War and refused to believe that naval combat had moved on.  One of them was smart enough to accept that Thomas knew what he was doing, if only because he’d returned alive; the other seemed to think Thomas had escaped certain death by sheer damned luck.  Thomas bit his lip to keep from telling them precisely what he thought of their feelings, all too aware his wife was watching him.  She’d put a lot of effort into the evening.  

Damn it, Thomas thought.  He glanced at his wristcom, wishing the Admiralty would recall him.  Or something.  He’d been told he had to report back to Nelson Base in two days, but ... he would almost have welcomed an alien attack.  Not, he supposed, that he would have been able to get back to his ship.  There simply wouldn’t be time.  Commander Donker, his XO, would have to take command.  We wouldn’t even have time to call off the party.

He forced himself to keep moving.  A pair of young debs wittered to him about nothing in particular, suggesting they’d gone to a finishing school that specialised in turning a young lady’s head into mush.  Thomas wasn’t sure if they were hitting on him or just trying to make pointless conversation.  There was no sign of a chaperone.  The dresses they wore, all too revealing, suggested they’d come alone.  An older man babbled endlessly about the horses, while drinking glass after glass of expensive wine.  Thomas tried to hide his disgust.  The intelligent aristocrats, the ones with working brains, were serving their country.  The ones who couldn’t count past ten without taking off their socks - and thought that taking down their pants, instead, was the height of humour - were infesting his estate.  He wanted them all gone.

Charlotte joined him as the butler called the crowd in for dinner.  Thomas glanced at her, wondering - again - why she cared.  She’d gone to some trouble to dress up, donning a long pink outfit that gave the impression of being translucent without revealing anything and tying up her hair into buns that made her look mature and yet strikingly young.  He supposed it meant something to her, but what?  It wasn’t as if she was a prisoner on the estate.  She ran the place.  She could take a trip to London any time she liked ...

“You’re seated next to Lord Aleman,” Charlotte said, pitching her voice so low Thomas could barely hear her over the babble.  “Try and keep him onside.”

Thomas sighed.  Lord Aleman wasn’t as bad as the dimwit - he was currently flirting with one of the debs, who looked as if she wanted to gut him with her bare hands - but he wasn’t Thomas’s idea of a good dinner companion.  He caught sight of Captain Campbell, looking completely out of place, and winced inwardly.  The lucky bastard didn’t have to worry about maintaining an estate.  Or pretending to like someone he wanted to strangle.

“I’ll try,” he said.

“Lord Aleman has the Prime Minister’s ear,” Charlotte added.  “We don’t want him saying the wrong things, do we?”

“No,” Thomas said.  “I suppose we don’t.”

***

If the general public knew about this, Captain Mitch Campbell thought sourly, they’d drag the entire aristocracy to the guillotines and behead them.

He tried to keep his face under tight control as he took his seat - at the lower table, naturally - and looked around the giant hall.  There was so much wealth and power concentrated in a single room that it was a marvel it didn’t go supercritical and explode, or that he hadn’t been unceremoniously ejected for being a very blatant commoner.  His dress uniform itched like mad - whoever had designed the outfit had been a sadist - and he had every right to wear it, but the mere act of wearing an untailored uniform was clear proof he wasn’t rich enough to afford a private tailor.  The debs - young women entering their seasons, now they were old enough to marry - might be willing to flirt with him in private, but not in public.  And hardly anyone else was interested in him at all.

Mitch felt his heart sink still further as the servants brought dinner into the hall and started to serve the first course.  There was so much food ... a commoner family on rations wouldn’t get anything like as much.  It had been a long time since anyone had actually starved in Britain - ration bars were free, on the grounds no one would actually pay for them - but they tasted of cardboard, when they tasted of anything at all.  He tried not to show his envy as he saw the roast haunches of meat, shining platters of vegetables and giant tureens of gravy.  He hadn’t eaten so well since ... since ever.  The bright young things all around him had no idea how lucky they were.  London was infected, under quarantine, and the lords and masters of the universe didn’t give a damn.

He gritted his teeth as he saw Captain Hammond, chatting happily with an older man in a fancy suit.  Captain Hammond wasn’t a bad officer, but he was conservative to a fault.  Mitch was sure they could have done more damage to the enemy, if they’d continued the fight.  But Hammond had wanted to quit while they were ahead ... Mitch snorted in disgust.  He should never have accepted the invitation.  He wasn’t even sure why it had been made.  God knew Captain Hammond was probably sick of him, too.

The dreadful evening continued as course after course was served.  Mitch heard a middle-aged man braying like a bull, the girl beside him looking more and more embarrassed until she accidentally knocked her wineglass into his lap.  Mitch had the feeling it might be worth getting to know her, but she left in a hurry as the servants helped the man sort himself out.  He couldn’t help feeling sorry for them.  It couldn’t be easy to work in an aristocratic household.  He knew he would have gone mad - or gotten himself arrested - very quickly.

He breathed a sigh of relief as the dinner finally came to an end and the guests started flowing into the dance hall or spilling out onto the lawn.  The staff had set up dozens of tiny lights, turning the garden into a maze that would have been romantic under other circumstances.  It was impossible to believe they’d put so much effort into a party.  Mitch had arranged gatherings and staff meetings, when he’d been a junior officer, and they’d been far simpler.  It helped, he supposed, that everyone had been in the navy.  They’d known how to put their egos aside and work together for the greater good.

Mitch stood and headed up the stairs, back to the balcony.  He knew he should join the dancing, but what was the point?  No one would notice his absence.  He didn’t belong on the estate.  His presence was a reminder that there was a world beyond the distant walls, a world where people without connections and estates and limitless bank accounts struggled for survival.  Not for the first time, Mitch considered applying to emigrate to Britannia or another colony world.   There was a great deal more social mobility on a world that was desperately short on settlers.  

He reached the top of the stairs and peered into the darkness.  There were no lanterns on this side of the estate.  The darkness seemed almost a living thing.  He looked up at the stars overhead, wondering just how many of them were space stations and orbital industrial nodes and everything else that kept human society going.  Unicorn was up there somewhere, too small to be seen with the naked eye.  He felt a twinge of guilt.  He’d desperately needed leave, but ...

“You left early,” a feminine voice said.  “Don’t want to dance?”

“No,” Mitch said.  He turned to see Charlotte Hammond standing by the door.  “I don’t think anyone wants to dance with me.”

“You might be surprised,” Charlotte said.  It was hard to make out her expression in the gloom.  “You’re a legitimate war hero.”

“Yes,” Mitch agreed.  “And that and five pounds will buy me a cup of tea.”

Charlotte laughed, but there was a hint of nervousness in the sound.  “You don’t like the party?”

Mitch decided to be honest.  “No,” he said.  “I don’t know anyone here.”

“It’s a good chance to make connections,” Charlotte said.  She stepped closer.  He was suddenly aware, very aware, of her body.  The dress concealed her bare skin while leaving little to the imagination.  “You never know who you might meet here.”

“I’m no good at making connections,” Mitch said.  “It feels too much like kissing ass.”

Charlotte giggled.  “That’s true,” she said.  “But that’s not why I invited you.”

And she leaned forward and kissed him.  Hard.

Chapter Four

Mitch awoke, suddenly.

He was in his room, the giant suite that wouldn’t have shamed an admiral, and he wasn’t alone.  Someone was sleeping in the bed next to him, snoring loudly ... he sat up and saw dark hair spilling over the pillow.  A flash of alarm ran through him.  What the hell had he done?  Had he lured one of the debs into bed?  Or ... he froze, torn between hope and fear, as he remembered the previous night.  Charlotte had seduced him.  No, she’d kissed him and he’d kissed her back and ... they’d wound up in bed together.  He tried to tell himself that it was still evening, that he’d only slept for a few moments, but the light streaming through the windows was a grim reminder that it was morning.  The following morning.  They were going to be caught at any second ...

Panic washed through him, followed by grim amusement.  Duelling wasn’t legal.  Not really.  He’d heard stories, but ... he shook his head.  He’d bet his life - he was betting his life - that he could outdraw and outshoot Captain Hammond.  Mitch had spent his entire career on small ships, where everyone - even the captain - had to get his hands dirty.  He’d kept up with his shooting whenever he’d had the chance, while Captain Hammond had Royal Marines to do the dirty work for him.  Mitch could win a duel ... he cursed under his breath as more and more memories surfaced.  Captain Hammond could really screw with his career.  The Admiralty would not be amused.

Fucking a captain’s wife is bound to be against some kind of regulation, Mitch thought, with a flicker of humour.   A wife who cheated on her husband when he was away on military service would be lucky if she was just sent to Coventry.  It was socially unacceptable, even if the husband was an abusive piece of shit.  I’m sure they can come up with something if they try.

He stared down at Charlotte.  She wasn’t his usual type.  She was easily ten years older than him, perhaps more; her body was pleasantly plump, with a hint she might become genuinely obese if she didn’t take care of herself.  She’d had two children, he recalled, both in their late teens.  And yet ... the memories mocked him.  How many times had they done it?  Three?  Four?  It was hard to believe she was that much of a tiger between the sheets, but the memories didn’t lie.  He’d heard stories about older women, when he’d been a teenager.  He’d always assumed they’d been made up, just like every other locker room story.  He wasn’t so sure now.  Charlotte hadn’t played coy and waited for him to make the first move.  She’d been the one who’d kissed him.  It had been one hell of a turn-on.

Charlotte opened her eyes and smiled.  “Good morning.”

Mitch glanced at the clock.  “It’s seven,” he said, as she sat upright.  Her breasts bobbled in front of his eyes.  It was hard to raise his gaze to meet hers.  “Shouldn’t you ...?”

His words caught in his throat.  Charlotte had been with him all night.  Her husband was in the same goddamned house!  Surely, he’d have noticed something.  Captain Hammond had a lack of imagination, Mitch knew from their disagreements, but surely he wouldn’t have missed his wife not coming to bed.  And what about the guests?  Mitch couldn’t believe Charlotte had chased them all out, before coming to him.  The party had been planned to last into the wee small hours.  For all he knew, the guests might be still downstairs.  A couple had been drunk enough to pass out well before the party came to an end.

“Not really,” Charlotte said.  Her eyes moved to his crotch.  “Thomas and I don’t sleep together.”

Mitch stared at her, unsure what he’d gotten himself into in every sense of the word.  Charlotte was naked, gloriously naked.  She wasn’t making any attempt to cover herself.  Mitch had spent his entire adult life in the navy, where privacy was non-existent, but still ... he’d never known a girl who’d been so comfortable naked.  It wasn’t as if they’d spent weeks or months or years together.  His relationships rarely lasted so long.  It had bothered him, sometimes, that he didn’t have a permanent girl back home.  And yet ... he felt cold at the thought.  Unicorn was tiny, compared to a fleet carrier or battleship.  A handful of missiles would be more than enough to blow her into dust.

“You don’t?”  Mitch’s voice seemed strange, even to him.  “You don’t ... not at all?”

Charlotte stood, knelt by the side of the bed and took him into her mouth.  Mitch stiffened, automatically, as her tongue started provoking him.  It was suddenly very hard to think straight, let alone stand, bend her over the bed and enter her from the rear.  It crossed his mind to wonder, a second too late, if one of the servants would hear them.  Charlotte seemed completely abandoned, lost in pleasure.  Mitch gave himself up to her, knowing - even as he lost control - that he was making a mistake.  But he’d always known his life was going to be short.

Afterwards, they stood on wobbly legs and headed into the shower.  Mitch was used to communal showers, but he still felt odd showering with her.  Charlotte looked stunning as water ran down her body, washing away all traces of their lovemaking ... Mitch tried to force himself to relax, praying to God she knew what she was doing.  Her husband might come looking for her at any moment, if it crossed his mind to wonder where the hell she was.  It was weird to think of a husband not sharing his bed with his wife.  Mitch couldn’t understand it.  He’d always liked spending time with his girlfriends.

“I ...”  He stopped suddenly, unsure how he should address her.   He’d just been inside her!  “I ... how do you know Captain Hammond won’t find us?”

Charlotte shrugged.  “We always sleep in, after a party,” she said.  “Thomas has no engagements today.  He can spend the entire morning in bed, if he likes.  The maids will bring him coffee, and breakfast, when he wakes.  We’re not due to have lunch until one.”

“After which we’re expected to head back to London,” Mitch said.  He wondered, suddenly, if the plans had changed.  It wouldn’t be the first time the military bureaucracy had mindlessly tried to follow an outdated plan.  “Will you ... why?”

Charlotte looked at him.  Mitch reminded himself, sharply, that she was a very intelligent woman.  She ran the estate, when her husband was on active service.  The party had probably been harder to arrange than he’d thought, given how many high-ranking or well-connected people had attended.  And ... he wondered, suddenly, how many other guests she’d dragged into bed.  She’d been alone for months ... no, not alone.  She’d been surrounded by servants.

“Because I get bored easily,” Charlotte said.  “Does that answer your question?”

Mitch shrugged.  “And the servants won’t talk?”

Charlotte smiled.  There was a very sharp edge to the expression.  “They’re loyal to me, not to Thomas,” she said.  “Even the oldest of old retainers knows better than to pick a fight with his mistress.  If they talked ... I’d fire them.  I wouldn’t have to blacklist them.  The mere act of tattling on me would be quite enough to blacklist them from any respectable work.  No one would trust them.  How could they?”

Her voice hardened.  “As far as anyone knows, I spent the night in my own room,” she added, dryly.  “No one will care enough to investigate.”

“I hope you’re right,” Mitch said.  Her comment about servants blacklisting themselves had unsettled him.  “Can I ask a question?”

“Of course,” Charlotte said.  She picked up the shampoo and lathered it into her hair.  “Go ahead.”

“You went to a lot of trouble to arrange a party,” Mitch said.  He bit down the urge to point out just how much money had been wasted on the party.  Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of families could have been fed for the same amount.  “Why?”

Charlotte said nothing as she washed the soap out of her hair.  “Politics,” she said, finally.  “It isn’t just telling people what to do, you know?”

She grinned.  “Think of politics, and social interaction, as a battlefield and you won’t be far wrong.”

“How so?”  Mitch found it hard to believe.  “A regular battle would leave hundreds of people dead or bleeding or ...”

“Social death is death, without an end,” Charlotte said, suddenly serious.  “Someone who makes a serious mistake, one they don’t have the social capital to avoid, is likely to wind up in big trouble.”

She turned off the tap and reached for a towel.  “On your ship, you give the orders and people snap to obey, right?”

“More or less,” Mitch said.  A good captain, one who understood his men weren’t machines, could get more out of them than a martinet.  “But that’s the basics.”

“Not here,” Charlotte said.  She waved a hand at the wall.  “The people I invited are well-connected, either directly or indirectly; owners of the land, titans of industry, men of wealth and power ... some of the women I invited have little formal power, but considerable influence.  None of them would react well if anyone, even the monarch, was to give them a direct order and expect them to follow it.  Instead, they come here - and to other parties - where they are convinced to support the government and ruling factions.”

Mitch frowned.  “You make it sound like a game.”

“It is,” Charlotte said.  “And one played for the very highest stakes.”

She shrugged.  “Lady Bracknell wants her son to marry well,” she said.  “She’s got multiple irons in the fire, trying to determine which bride would be in the best interests of the family.  Lord Darlington owns title to a bunch of asteroids, which are worthless unless he manages to sell mining rights to someone prepared to pay for them; Lord Roderick is hoping to convince the social queens to make his creations fashionable so his dressmaking shop becomes profitable ...”

“You’re kidding me,” Mitch said.  “He makes dresses!”

Charlotte laughed.  “There are men who wouldn’t be seen dead cooking for their wives,” she said.  “And yet, at the same time, those men are professional cooks.”

“It’s the same thing,” Mitch said.

“It’s a matter of presentation,” Charlotte said.  “Point is, you cannot expect these people to unthinkingly do as they’re told.  You have to convince them that it’s in their best interests to support you.  Even if you have formal authority, you still want them on your side.  It’ll save trouble in the long run.”

Mitch was torn between fascination and an odd sense they were talking about different things.  It was hard to understand what she was saying, even though it ... he shook his head as he towelled himself down.  The aristocracy was a whole other world.  He’d been in foreign parts, but ... he’d never felt so alienated.  Perhaps it wasn’t a surprise.  America and France had been foreign.  He’d known they’d be different.  But the British aristocracy was British.

Charlotte strode back into the bedroom and opened the chest of drawers.  Mitch watched the sight, admiringly.  Charlotte was striking.  He knew it was partly the hormones talking, but ... he felt himself stiffen again.  He forced himself to look away.  It was nearly eight.  They were pushing it.  God alone knew what the guests had thought, when Charlotte vanished ...

He turned away to pick up his own clothes.  “What about the guests?  You left them alone.”

“Unsupervised, you mean?”  Charlotte shot him a wink.  “By tradition, the hostess is meant to leave the party shortly after dinner.  It’s a way of saying the party is now over and the guests can leave without causing offense.  You left early, did you not?”

Mitch sighed.  “Does anyone here really care about me?”

“Consider yourself lucky,” Charlotte told him.  “If you were one of the young bucks, or the debs, you’d be watched like a hawk at all times.”

I notice you didn’t deny it, Mitch thought, as he watched her dress.  There was something oddly enticing about watching her put on her clothes, even though - with every movement - she raised a barrier between them.  Her dress was a uniform, in every way that mattered.  It struck him, suddenly, that she’d planned the whole affair right from the start.  How else would she have known to preposition clothes in his room?  His lips quirked at the thought.  I’ve known logistics officers who wouldn’t have done so well.

He frowned as she stood, brushed down her dress, and stepped through the door.  The room felt bigger without her, as if her personality had pervaded the chamber.  It was hard to believe, somehow, that she and Captain Hammond’s wife were the same person.  Mitch wasn’t unused to the slight confusion that came with seeing senior officers out of uniform, but ... he shook his head.  Common sense said he should say nothing, go back to London, rejoin his ship and forget her.  He’d never been very good at listening to his common sense.

This isn’t the first time she’s done this, Mitch thought.  It was hardly the kind of risk anyone would take on a whim.  Charlotte would have to be very certain the servants wouldn’t rat her out.  Who really owned the estate?  Mitch had always had the impression it was Captain Hammond, but ... what if he was wrong?  What if it was Charlotte?  What if ...?

There was a knock at the door.  Mitch hastily finished putting on his trousers and shirt, then raised his voice.  “Come in!”

A maid stepped into the room, carrying a breakfast tray with practised ease.  She was a slight girl, wearing a uniform from a bygone era that exposed the tops of her breasts.  Mitch felt oddly creeped out by the display.  It was unlikely the maid had been allowed to choose her uniform.  She certainly didn’t have the raw sensuality Charlotte had displayed ... he pointed to the table, silently indicating she should put the tray there and leave.  It was hard not to feel sorry for the girl.  If she was so short of career options, she had to go into service ...

He felt an odd stab of resentment.  It wasn’t fair.  The world wasn’t fair - he knew the world wasn’t fair - and yet it still stung.  He was a firm believer that everyone should have the right to climb as high as they could and ... it was a sick joke to remember the guests from the previous evening and realise that doors were opened to them simply because of who and what they were.  Admiral Onarina had cut her way to the top through sheer brilliance, but how many other senior commanders owed everything to a name?  Mitch himself knew he was unlikely to be offered command of a battleship, let alone a promotion to admiral.  Not, he supposed, that he’d want either.  A frigate might be small, but she could go places no one would dare take a battleship.

The breakfast was perfect, of course.  The cook hadn’t been content to make simple scrambled eggs.  She’d worked chopped bacon and herbs into the mix, then poured it onto fancy bread.  Mitch wondered, once again, just how much money had been wasted on the breakfast.  Eggs weren’t expensive, even during the war.  Bread was even cheaper.  But that would have been far too plebeian for the estate.  The cooks would sooner have died than work with cheap ingredients.

He picked up his wristcom and skimmed through the messages as soon as he’d finished his breakfast.  There was nothing new, save for a handful of general alerts.  The BBC didn’t seem to have sent out any new updates, nor had the handful of news services he followed.  He wondered just what they thought he was paying for, if not the news.  There were people who followed the comings and goings of aristocrats and rock stars with surprising interest, but he didn’t care who was cheating on who ...

You might have to care, he thought, sourly.  Are you going to say no if she invites you into her bed again?

He tried to convince himself that the answer was yes.  He didn’t have to come back to the estate.  It wasn’t as if there weren’t a hundred and one tasks waiting for him when he returned to his ship.  He could make an excuse, if he was invited; he could claim everything from urgent repairs to a prior engagement.  And yet ... he shook his head.  Charlotte had been good, very good.  He didn’t want to turn his back.  The sheer risk involved, to both of them, was part of the fun.  What was the point of gambling if you could afford to lose?

And she’s probably bored with her husband, Mitch thought.  It was an unworthy sentiment, one he knew he shouldn’t allow himself to hold, but it was impossible to brush it away.  He’s not the type to be adventurous in bed.

There was another knock at the door.  “Come in!”

The maid stepped into the room.  “Captain, Lord Thomas has been ordered back to Nelson Base,” 	she said.  “A shuttle has been dispatched to transport him.  He requests the pleasure of your company for the trip.”

Mitch glanced at his wristcom.  There were no new messages.  Did Captain Hammond suspect something?  Did he know he’d been cuckolded?  Or did he merely want to assist Mitch in returning to his ship?  Hell, for all he knew, they’d both been invited to the base.  HMS Lion and HMS Unicorn were supposed to operate in tandem.  Neither ship was really designed to operate alone.

“Inform him I would be honoured,” Mitch said.  In a way, it was almost a relief.  He’d be out of temptation’s way.  And it wasn’t as if it would take long to pack.  “I’ll be down in five minutes.”

The maid curtsied.  “Yes, Captain.”

Chapter Five

“So,” Doctor Farah said.  “How do you feel?”

Tobias tried not to glare at the older woman.  “If I wasn’t ill when I was escorted into this facility,” he said, “I sure as hell am now.”

The doctor gave him a sharp look.  “Explain.”

“I’ve been here for days,” Tobias said.  He thought it had actually been hours, but it was hard to be sure.  “You have poked me and prodded me and jabbed me with needles and injected me with so many different drugs that it’s a wonder I haven’t bled to death.”

His stomach growled, menacingly.  “And you haven’t given me anything to eat.”

“Yes,” the doctor said.  “As you may recall, you were near the epicentre of a biological attack.  Ground zero, to all intents and purposes.  If you had been infected, we might have been able to do something if the infection hadn’t already reached your brain and taken control.  Denying you food also denied the infection resources it needed to turn you into a zombie.”

Tobias shivered.  The doctor was right, but he still felt abused.  “And am I infected?  Is Marigold infected?”

“Not as far as we can tell,” the doctor said.  “You were lucky you thought to put on your masks.  We found traces of viral particles in your hair and clothes.  Thankfully, the UV lights kept them from spreading once you were out of the hotel.  You two were the only survivors from that building.”

“Shit,” Tobias said.  “Why did it happen so fast?”

“As near as we can tell, you faced an enhanced viral package,” the doctor said.  “Perversely, it is actually too lethal.  The infection killed a number of victims before they could become zombies, burning through their bodies so quickly they didn’t even become contagious.  We’re sweeping the area now, with UV lights and flamethrowers, but we think we have the outbreak under control.”

“You think,” Tobias said.  He rubbed his forehead.  The shackles had been removed once they’d passed the first battery of tests, but the room still felt like a prison cell.  The walls were bare, the lights were too bright ... his skin itched under the glare.  He was imagining it - he knew he was imagining it - but it felt real.  “How can you be sure?”

“We can’t,” the doctor admitted.  “Not completely.  However, the viral package doesn’t seem designed to step down so it can perform a stealth takeover.  If you were infected, you would either be dead or a zombie by now.  There’s certainly no trace of viral matter in your bloodstream.”

“Thank God,” Tobias muttered.  “What an end to vacation.”

“It could be worse,” the doctor said.  “You’ll never guess where I spent my honeymoon.”

Tobias shrugged.  The days when the average citizen had travelled halfway around the world for a quick holiday, or a honeymoon, were long gone.  He didn’t recall any of his schoolmates ever going on a foreign holiday, although he supposed that shouldn’t have surprised him.  Getting to Europe or America had been tricky even before the virus had shown the human race that it needed to tighten the borders, again.  It would be a long time before anyone went to North Africa or Turkey for a simple vacation.

“We were in Bournemouth,” the doctor said.  “It wasn’t so bad, but the company ...”

“The rain must have been lovely and warm,” Tobias said.  “Or did you get some sun?”

“We did,” the doctor said.  She let out a heavy sigh.  “You’re cleared to leave.  Make sure you have tracker packages enabled on your wristcoms, at least for the next forty-eight hours or so.  I’d prefer you didn’t deactivate them until you report back to your ship.  The ship’s doctor will probably insist on checking you out, just to be sure there’s no problem.  Give them as much time as they need.  They can’t risk a viral outbreak on a starship.”

“Even though it should be easy to contain, on a starship,” Tobias said.  “I thought that’s what all the emergency drills were for.”

“In theory, yes,” the doctor said.  “In practice ... we weren’t expecting a fast-burning viral outbreak.  It’s either evolving or modifying itself to present us with a harder challenge.  It’s quite possible it’ll find a way to hide within the human body, sooner or later, and remain undetected long enough to get onto a starship and spread widely.  There’s no point in sealing off a compartment if the infection is already on the wrong side of the airlocks.”

She stood.  “The orderly will escort you down to the lobby,” she said.  “Make sure you have your wristcom enabled before you go.”

Tobias nodded.  “Yes, doctor.”

He frowned as he keyed his wristcom.  It was hard to forget, sometimes, that the wristcom was a very effective tracking device.  It wasn’t as obvious as the standard ankle-bracelet provided for prisoners on parole, a device designed to be as uncomfortable as possible just to remind the wearer it was there, but ... it was far more effective.  Tobias was all too aware that it could be used to track him, or to allow the government to trace his movements back in time to the moment he’d first purchased the device.  It bothered him, more than he dared say out loud.  Sure, he’d been told the device didn’t broadcast location data unless the function was enabled, but was that actually true?  He doubted it.  Even if the locator beacon itself was turned off, the wristcom announced its location every time it checked the datanet for new messages or accepted an incoming call.

And no one really knows where all the data is going, he thought, grimly.  Who’s really tracking my every move?

He brought up the menu and enabled the tracker package.  In theory, if he was infected, the wristcom would sound the alarm.  He wasn’t sure that was true - the wristcom wasn’t designed to serve as a biological sampler - and he’d heard horror stories of armed police turning up to arrest people who’d accidentally triggered the alarm.  The device was designed to monitor someone’s vital signs.  It wouldn’t take more than an unaccustomed jog to speed up one’s heartbeat beyond the norm ... he shook his head.  He’d just have to make sure he took it off before he did anything too strenuous.  The thought made him smile.  One thing he liked about being an adult, and a gunboat pilot, was that no one made him go to PE class any longer.

The orderly poked his head into the room.  “Richard Gurnard?”

“Tobias, please,” Tobias said.  There were times when he cursed his parents for naming him Richard.  The jokes had practically written themselves.  “I can’t wait to get out of here.”

The orderly grinned.  “I know how you feel,” he said.  “I can’t wait for my shift to be over too.”

Tobias nodded as he stood and followed the orderly down a long white corridor.  The medical centre felt like a maze, as if a dozen buildings had been woven together into a single complex.  Doctors and nurses hurried past on urgent business, the orderly motioning Tobias against the wall whenever a trolley or stretcher was rolled past.  A handful looked completely sealed, their occupant little more than a dark shadow behind the translucent cover.  Tobias shivered, remembering the body bags he’d seen on Lion.  It was hard not to believe he’d wind up in one himself, one day.  Cold logic insisted he’d be blown to bits, if his gunboat was hit, without enough left to fill a teaspoon - let alone a coffin - but the thought refused to leave.

He cheered up as the orderly showed him into a small cafe.  Marigold was sitting at a table, looking frazzled.  Tobias waved and ran towards her, giving her a quick hug before sitting down.  She looked as if she hadn’t slept or showered or so much as brushed her long hair in hours.  Tobias doubted he’d win any awards either.  He wasn’t sure just how long they’d been in the medical complex, but he was fairly certain it had been more than a day or two.  It was easy to lose track of time in a hospital.

“I feel rotten,” Marigold said.  An empty paper mug rested in front of her.  “I ... fuck.”

Tobias nodded.  He didn’t feel great either.  He wanted to find a hotel and sleep until the time came to report back to the spaceport ... he swallowed, hard, as he checked his wristcom.  They’d been in the medical centre for a day and they were expected to return to the ship tomorrow.  He checked his bank balance, already knowing what he’d see.  He didn’t have the money to book a hotel in London.  His lips twisted.  There was little hope of recovering the money they’d paid the last hotel.  God alone knew if the insurance company would pay out or not.  Even if it did - and he was morbidly sure the firm would fight tooth and nail to keep from paying a penny - it would be weeks, if not months, before everything was processed.  It wasn’t as if the company would be able to visit the hotel and perform an investigation.  For all he knew, the hotel had been burned to the ground.

And we were the only survivors, Tobias thought.  He hadn’t seen many of the other guests - it was that sort of hotel - but he’d seen a couple.  A middle-aged man with a young woman - a girl, really - no older than Tobias himself.  Tobias had been sure he’d been a sugar daddy with his sugar baby ... his stomach churned in disgust.  Wherever they’d been, they were dead now.  Dead, or worse.  We got incredibly lucky.

He felt sick as he stood and poured himself a cup of coffee.  It tasted ghastly, but it helped to wake him up.  He’d thought himself used to flying a gunboat, to pretending - in the privacy of his own mind - that the starfighters and capital ships he engaged were nothing more than lights on the display, no more real than opponents in computer games.  He’d never seen himself as a groundpounder, he’d never dared imagine himself fighting hand-to-hand ... it had been easier to pretend he had superpowers than the muscles or training to stand up for himself.  And he’d hated it and ... his head spun.  He hadn’t wanted to really hurt someone.  He hadn’t wanted to ...

“I killed him,” he muttered.  “Fuck.”

“The virus killed him,” Marigold pointed out.  “If he hadn’t been infected, he wouldn’t have threatened us.”

“I know that,” Tobias said.  He swallowed, hard.  “I just don’t believe it.”

He swallowed, again.  There’d been a child, a dead child.  The manager’s kid?  Or a guest?  Or ... it didn’t matter.  The poor kid was dead, dead and gone ... their body might never be identified.  He’d told the doctors what he’d seen, but ... for all he knew, the body had got up and walked away before the armed police and soldiers arrived.  It wasn’t impossible.  He’d hit the manager’s body several times, hard enough to stop a regular human in his tracks.  And yet the zombie had tried to keep coming ...

Marigold touched his hand.  “It wasn’t your fault,” she said.  “If we’d had the money ...”

“... We’d have gone somewhere else,” Tobias finished.  He shook his head.  “I don’t know what we’re going to do tonight.”

He glanced at his wristcom.  There was no point in asking for an advance on his next paycheck.  The military disliked offering advances, from what he’d heard; it was far too easy for a CO to find himself acting as an unpaid collections agent when a soldier or spacer had bought something he couldn’t afford.  His mother didn’t have the money to loan, even if he wanted to ask her ... he cursed under his breath.  It was starting to look as though they’d have to risk the spaceport barracks.  They were free to military personnel, but ... he couldn’t think of anything else.  He certainly didn’t want to ask Marigold’s family to pay.

“We’ll have to go to the barracks,” Marigold said.  She’d clearly been thinking along the same lines.  “Unless you know anyone in London who’d put us up for the night.”

Tobias shook his head.  He didn’t know anyone who’d put him up anywhere, except perhaps his mother.  If they were in Birmingham ... he considered, briefly, catching the monorail to Birmingham and asking his mother to let them stay the night, but the timing wouldn’t work out.  The only reason they’d booked a hotel in London was so they could head to the spaceport in the morning, without using the barracks or spending most of the day travelling back to the ship.  

“Joy,” he said.  His stomach growled.  “Do you think we can get something to eat before we head to the barracks or ... should we just go?”

Marigold keyed her wristcom.  “I’ll let the barracks know we’re coming,” she said.  “You check to see if there’s anywhere open right now.”

Tobias nodded, cursing his luck under his breath.  He’d hoped they’d have one more day in bed together.  There were privacy tubes on the ship, but ... it wasn’t quite the same.  He liked waking up in bed with her, as well as everything else.  It was hard to believe she felt the same about him.  A wave of despondency threatened to overwhelm him as he keyed his wristcom once again.  It was just a matter of time before she found a far superior man and left.  He was sure of it.

Don’t be a wanker, he told himself, sharply.  She could have had her pick of men if she’d wanted.  And she chose you.

He frowned as the wristcom bleeped.  “The city is still in lockdown,” he said.  It looked as if they’d have to travel quite some distance, just to get something to eat.  He eyed the rows of ration bars on the counter, free to all comers.  It was easy to see that none had been taken in the last few hours, if at all.  “Essential services only.”

“We might be able to get something to eat at the barracks,” Marigold said.  “Or find somewhere open closer to the spaceport.  We can probably find a taxi outside.”

“Lockdown or no lockdown,” Tobias muttered.  He stood, walked over to the counter and collected a handful of ration bars.  They might taste like cardboard - the good ones, at least - but they were short on options.  They’d be glad to have the ration bars if they couldn’t find somewhere better to eat.  “Shall we go?”

He held her hand as they walked out of the medical complex.  It felt like a military base - or a prison.  Armed guards stood everywhere, their eyes sweeping from side to side as if they expected to be jumped at any moment.  Tobias shivered as he noted their uniforms.  They weren’t reservists, but regulars.  The medical complex was either a military facility in all but name or ... someone thought it might come under attack at any moment.  A chill ran through him as they made their way through the gate and the checkpoint beyond, the guards waving them through after a cursory look at their naval IDs.  Tobias was entirely sure it would be a great deal harder to get into the complex.  The guards probably had orders to shoot first, if they had any doubts, and ask questions later.

“There.”  Marigold pointed to a taxi waiting by the road.  “Let’s go.”

Tobias nodded and followed her to the taxi.  The driver looked relieved to see them.  Tobias wasn’t too surprised.  There were too many soldiers on the streets for anyone to have any doubts about the potential danger.  Soldiers in public view had been common, since the Troubles and the Bombardment, but ... he shook his head.  Anyone could be a zombie, these days.  Anyone could turn into a lethal enemy ...

The taxi hummed into life and drove away from the medical complex.  Tobias hadn’t been to London very often, and he hadn’t spent much time in the city, but even he could tell the capital was oddly subdued.  The streets were largely empty, save for soldiers, policemen and a handful of civilians.  The latter wore masks, some of which looked as if they’d come straight out of the Second World War.  Tobias wasn’t too impressed.  A man might rely on a mask to save his life, but a zombie could also use one to hide his true nature.  He’d heard rumours that police checkpoints were making people lift their masks, as well as submit to blood screenings.  It would certainly make a great deal of sense.

He shivered as a pair of helicopters clattered through the air.  Police or military?  It didn’t really matter.  London had been a no-fly zone for everyone else for decades, ever since the Troubles.  The PDCs on the far side of the city had authorisation to shoot down aircraft that ventured into the secure airspace, perhaps without warning.  Tobias tried not to think about the shuttle that would be taking them back to the ship, passing too close to the PDC for comfort.  He understood the logic - a zombie would have no qualms about crashing an airliner into the city - but it still chilled him to the bone.  They might wind up doing more damage to themselves, through paranoia, than the virus could do.

You know better than that, he told himself, as they passed through a checkpoint and drove onto the motorway.  There were only a handful of vehicles, civilian or military, heading in or out of the city.  The threat is very real.

But he couldn’t help feeling relieved that they were going back into space, leaving the world behind.

Chapter Six

Captain Campbell had been oddly quiet during the flight from the estate to Nelson Base.  He’d seemed almost relieved that they were on their way back to space.  Thomas tended to agree with him.  Deep-space combat was relatively simple, compared to the genteel battlegrounds of the country’s aristocracy.  Thomas was glad to be away, despite spending the morning going through letters and missives from mothers who wanted to arrange good matches for their sons.  It was a pain in the arse, he’d decided.  There was no way he was going to push his daughters into marrying someone they barely knew.

He kept the thought to himself as the shuttle docked, the airlock hissing open to allow them to stumble out and into the security checkpoint.  The blood test was as unpleasant as always, although they both knew the importance of ensuring everyone was in their right mind.  The aide on the far side saluted them, then led them through a maze of corridors into a giant auditorium.  Thomas felt his heart begin to race as he glanced around the chamber.  There were at least thirty captains and other officers in the compartment, including a number of American, French and Chinese personnel.   Something big was afoot.  There wouldn’t have been so much tension in the air if they were planning something simple.  An aide offered him a mug of tea, which he accepted.  Captain Campbell was already heading down to the front row.

We wouldn’t be meeting in person if it wasn’t very important, Thomas thought.  He was a big fan of holocommunications and conferences - there was nothing to be gained by meeting in person, if it could be handled over the datanet instead - but face-to-face discussions were good for actually getting to know people.  What are we planning?

He took his seat and waited, eyes flickering around the giant compartment.  He knew a handful of officers, some personally and some by reputation, but the remainder were strangers.  The war had taken one hell of a toll on humanity’s space navies, grinding down the pre-war establishments and forcing the militaries to promote younger officers into suddenly-empty billets.  Thomas grimaced at the thought.  The war had smoothed out the cracks, teaching the various navies how to work together, but ... it could not be denied that a great deal of institutional knowledge had been lost.  It was hard to believe, sometimes, that things would ever go back to normal.

A rustle ran through the room as Admiral Lady Susan Onarina walked up to the podium, followed by a pair of staff officers.  She looked little different from when they’d last met, after Lion had returned from Operation Thunder Child, but there was a hint of anticipation on her face that suggested the fleet was really going to head into the fire.  Thomas silently counted the commanding officers, noting there were now over forty starship captains and a handful of groundpounders.  Royal Marines, United States Marine Corps, Russian Naval Infantry ... it was impossible to believe they were assembling for something minor.  He felt a thrill, despite his natural caution.  They might be preparing for a decisive operation.

“At ease,” Admiral Onarina said.  She spoke in English, the shared language of multinational operations.  “Welcome to Operation Lightning Strike.”

Her words hung in the air.  Thomas leaned forward.  Thunder Child, Lightning Strike ... someone was a fan of old movies and serials.  The admiral?  Or one of her aides?  It was hard to be sure.  The MOD preferred to name operations something innocuous, in the hopes of avoiding media attention if the codename leaked out.  Thunder Child hinted at too much, in his opinion.  Anyone who ran the name through a search engine would find more than enough reasons to suspect the truth.

“The operation has been authorised by the world governments,” Admiral Onarina continued, calmly.  “The precise details of the concept have been classified, as will the outcome of our planning sessions.  I should not have to remind you, but I am obliged to do so, that sharing anything with anyone outside the info-compartment will result in national and/or global charges being brought against you.  Your governments will not be amused if the secret leaks ahead of time.  These days, bulkheads have ears.”

Thomas nodded.  The virus had access to countless human prisoners.  Worse, it could turn them into traitors.  It was quite possible the virus was monitoring human communications, trying to keep track of human politics.  There was certainly no way to prove it wasn’t.  It hadn’t been such a concern in the First and Second Interstellar Wars - the Tadpoles and the Foxes had lacked any insight into human society, and vice versa - but the virus had a Rosetta Stone.  It could spy on the human race from a distance.  They had to assume it was.

“We have a great deal of ground to cover,” Admiral Onarina said.  “With no further ado, I’ll turn you over to Commander Vicar.”

Vicar stepped forward.  He was a small bespectacled man, wearing a uniform in a manner that suggested he wasn’t used to wearing it.  Thomas guessed he was an analyst, rather than a proper staff officer or military beancounter.  That might be good or bad.  An analyst who didn’t give a damn about his career, and had no qualms about speaking truth to power, might be very useful.  But, at the same time, his lack of military background would work against him.  Thomas knew there were thousands of officers who thought less of civilians.  They just didn’t understand what it was like to be in the military.

A holographic starchart appeared in the centre of the chamber.  Thomas studied it thoughtfully, noting the cluster of green, blue, red and orange stars, all linked together by glowing tramlines.  There were two more orange - infected - stars than he remembered, although he hadn’t heard anything about more systems falling to the virus.  He made a mental note to check on that as quickly as possible.  The public might not have been told the entire truth, but he wasn’t a member of the public.  He was a naval officer and an aristocrat with a seat in the House of Lords.  He needed to know the full situation, damn it.

Vicar spoke with a calm confidence that belied his appearance.  “Two months ago, long-range gravimetric sensors detected gravity waves propagating at FTL speeds, emanating from UAS-4832,” he said.  A red star blinked once.  “The star system, as you can see, is in a curious position.  It is no less than fifty light years from Sol, but - thanks to the idiosyncrasies of the tramline network - is actually impossible to reach directly.  As the old joke puts it, the Scots must march north to reach England because there’s no way to travel south.”

Thomas frowned as the starchart zeroed in on UAS-4832.  The problem was obvious.  Anyone who wanted to reach UAS-4832, a dim red star of no interest to anyone, would have to travel quite some distance along the tramline network before doubling back to reach their final destination.  The star hadn’t even been surveyed before the First Interstellar War, if only because it couldn’t be reached without alien-grade drives.  Orbital telescopes had inspected the system, concluded it was largely useless and no one had bothered to visit.  Officially, at least.  The system was so barren it was unlikely to host a covert colony.

“The gravity waves were strong enough to convince the navy to dispatch a survey ship to UAS-4832,” Vicar continued.  “They reported that the virus was establishing no less than twenty catapults, within easy striking distance of Sol.  Given the ...”

A rustle ran around the compartment as his words sank in.  Thomas felt as if he’d been punched in the belly.  A single catapult was so expensive that even a Great Power would hesitate to build it.  Twenty of them ... Britain’s entire GNP wouldn’t be enough to produce twenty catapults.  It sounded more like a fantasy fleet dream than anything else, along the same lines as planners who insisted Britain could deploy a thousand fleet carriers ... if, of course, the country didn’t want to produce anything else.  He shook his head in disbelief.  Every time he thought he’d come to grips with the true scale of the threat, something happened to convince him that he’d barely begun.

“Jesus,” Captain Campbell said, quietly.

For once, Thomas agreed wholeheartedly.  Twenty catapults ... he thought he knew, now, how the long-gone Roman Emperors had felt when they’d seen the barbarian hordes riding over the plains towards them.  The tramlines forced invading fleets to stick to a predictable course, giving the defenders time to redeploy their forces to meet the threat, but now ... if the entire sky could become a tramline, humanity’s defences would become worse than useless.  The ships holding the line would be hopelessly out of position ...

“Our best-case scenario is that the catapults will be ready within two months,” Vicar said.  “They are one-shot weapons, thankfully, but that’s small consolation.  Our calculations suggest they can throw enough ships at Sol, in a single transit, to overwhelm the defences and destroy our industrial base.  At that point, it will be just a matter of time before they finish the job.  Imagine a boot stamping on a human face for the rest of eternity.”

The virus doesn’t need to oppress anyone, Thomas thought.  There’ll be no one left who’ll need oppressing.

Vicar stepped down.  Admiral Onarina stepped forward.

“The situation is grim,” she said.  “On the face of it, as you can see, if we do not take out those catapults quickly we will be defeated.  There will be no hope of holding the line.  Either we call our ships back to Earth, allowing the virus to claim the remainder of the human sphere or we risk ignoring the threat and losing Earth when they put the catapults into service.  However, it does offer us an opportunity as well as a threat.  Sally?”

Another officer - a young woman - stepped forward.  “Operation Lightning Strike is divided into two sections,” she said.  “Phase One involves capturing or destroying the catapults before they can be put into service.  Phase Two involves making use of the catapults ourselves.  As you can see” - the starchart changed, again - “the catapults could easily be used to put a fleet in the enemy’s rear.   If we can make use of the catapults ourselves, we can strike the enemy in the back and - hopefully - do immense damage to their industrial base.”

Thomas frowned.  The concept seemed solid, on paper, but it sounded like a plan dreamed up by an armchair admiral. There was no way to be sure they could capture the catapults, let alone put them to use.  And even if they did, there would be no way to jump back.  They’d have to fight their way through the tramlines, all too aware the enemy would be straining every sinew to block their retreat.  He looked around, silently gauging how many starships were going to be thrown into enemy territory.  The human race could win the battle, but lose the war.

An American had the same thought.  “How do we know we can use the catapults?”

“The virus’s tech is odd, by our standards,” Sally said.  Thomas had the impression she’d anticipated the question.  “A lot of their control systems are blurred into its biological network, rather as we use command and control implants.  Its processing power is so great, compared to a merely human brain, that it is capable of multitasking on an incredible scale.  However, the systems themselves are solid tech.  In some ways, they’re actually simpler than ours.  We cannot expect them to do something that requires long-term effort, according to the techs, but we should be able to get them up and running long enough to make transit.  We only need them to work once.”

“And then we’ll be trapped behind enemy lines,” Thomas pointed out.

“Yes,” a French-accented voice said.  “How do we even know we’ll be making transit into enemy space?”

“Intelligence has been studying the remnants of infected ships for the last decade, ever since the war began,” Admiral Onarina said.  If she was annoyed by the question, she didn’t show it.  “The precise details are classified, but suffice it to say that we have a rough idea of the size of enemy-held space.  It looks odd by our standards, suggesting the virus has overwhelmed at least four interstellar powers, yet ... we think we’ve pinpointed a handful of alien industrial nodes.  We make transit, we blow the nodes to dust and head home as quickly as possible.”

Her voice hardened.  “We don’t know, yet, if we’ll be able to proceed to Phase Two.  There is a chance the catapults will be destroyed or discovered to be unusable, when we hit the system and try to capture them.  It’s quite possible we’ll accomplish nothing more than buying time to develop new weapons and put them into mass production.  And yes, there’s a chance we’ll be trapped behind enemy lines.  The GATO council would not have authorised the mission if they hadn’t been certain we have no choice.  If the virus brings those catapults online, it will win.”

She paused.  “Defeat means the end of the world.  There will be no hope of resistance, no hope of mounting a war of liberation ... nothing, apart from the virus.  Bear that in mind.”

“If nothing else, we can force it to start rebuilding the catapults from scratch,” Captain Campbell said.  He sounded as if he was certain the plan would succeed.  “That will buy us some more time.”

Admiral Onarina nodded.  “And all of this leads to a second point.”

Her eyes swept the compartment.  “The BioBombs were not as effective as we had hoped, but they were effective.  Accordingly, we will be deploying them wherever possible.  Our goal will be to destroy the infection wherever we find it, regardless of the cost.  The host bodies are beyond recovery.  We will seek to give them a clean end, rather than remain trapped in a living death.  Many people will argue that we’re planning to commit genocide” - she held up a hand to stave off protests - “but we have no choice.  We must destroy the infection, root and branch, or it will destroy us.”

Thomas shuddered, remembering the sensor images from the last mission.  They’d sentenced an entire colony world to death.  Cold logic told him the colonists had been dead from the moment they’d been infected, when their minds had been raped and their bodies had been stolen, but it was hard to believe.  The Royal Navy was supposed to prevent atrocities, not commit them.  And yet ... he felt sick as he contemplated the reports from London.  Very little had been released publicly, but he knew how to read between the lines.  A little less luck, and worse timing, might have resulted in a far greater loss of life.  He wondered, grimly, if someone would have insisted on dropping a BioBomb on London.  The cure might have been worse than the disease.

Or a nuke, he thought.  There’d been plans to use atomic bombs in the hopes of wiping out a handful of deadly diseases.  None of them had ever been put into practice, but ... now, that might change.  We might have to wipe out an entire city to save the rest of the country.

Admiral Onarina tapped a control.  The display vanished.  “The provisional operational plan has been sent to your terminals,” she said.  “Please inspect them, then feel free to propose alternatives.  The plans will not be finalised until the allied contingents arrive.  Once they do, we’ll depart Earth and commence the operation as quickly as possible.”

Allied contingents?  Thomas blinked.  Tadpoles?  Or Foxes?

The thought bothered him.  He had nothing against humanity’s enemies-turned-allies, although he knew there were millions of humans who disliked the Tadpoles after the Bombardment of Earth, but it would be extremely difficult to coordinate a large multiracial fleet.  He wasn’t even sure human and alien ships could work together, let alone lock their individual datanets into a single entity.  There’d be all sorts of problems, from computers that wouldn’t work together to cultural assumptions and blindspots and ...

They said the same about multinational formations too, he reminded himself.  And we worked out all the kinks eventually.

Sure, his own thoughts answered.  And how many people died while we were learning how to do it?

He put the thought out of his head as he keyed his terminal, bringing up the operational plan.  It was surprisingly simple, for a concept devised by a desk jockey.  Thomas guessed that Admiral Onarina had outlined the basic idea, then given it to her staff to develop.  There were a number of question marks - the outline was honest about the things the planners didn’t know, starting with how many ships would be assigned to the mission - but there were no obvious flaws.  The notes insisted that the entire operation had been wargamed, with the good guys winning more often than they’d lost.  Thomas wasn’t impressed by that.  There were so many unknowns, particularly on the far side of enemy-held space, that the wargame parameters were little more than uneducated guesses.  For all he knew, the virus was fighting on multiple fronts and the fleets humanity had destroyed were little more than a drop in the bucket.  There was just no way to be sure.

Not until we go find out, he thought.  If they’re building catapults on such a scale ... 

“This should be fun,” Captain Campbell said.  “A strike right into the heart of the evil empire itself.”

“No doubt,” Thomas thought, with a flicker of irritation.  He just didn’t like the younger officer.  “And total defeat staring us right in the face if we lose.”

Chapter Seven

“Wake up,” Marigold said, urgently.  “We’ve arrived.”

Tobias gritted his teeth as he sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes.  The barracks hadn’t been comfortable.  He’d never liked sharing a compartment with his fellow gunboat crew, let alone a bunch of strangers from a dozen different military branches.  And being in the male barracks had been the worst of it.  Marigold had been on the other side of the complex.  Tobias understood the logic, but it still galled him.

He felt oddly naked even though he was in his shipsuit.  His carryall had been lost in the hotel, contents thrown into the fire rather than decontaminated and returned.  He hadn’t had much with him, beyond several sets of clothes and a couple of souvenirs that hadn’t been worth the money he’d paid for them, but it was still annoying.  Thankfully, his uniforms had been left onboard ship.  He could purchase most of what he needed when he returned to the planet ...

If I ever do, he thought, as they headed to the airlock.  I might not come back.

He tried not to think about it as the gravity field twisted under his feet.  The air smelt familiar, as if he were coming home.  Lion wasn’t his home and yet, in a way, she was.  He flew his gunboat away from the battlecruiser and then returned to a welcome bunk and a rest before doing it again and again ... he shook his head.  He’d been told it would be a while before the Royal Navy put more missile-heavy battlecruisers into production, even though Lion had proved herself.  He was quite likely to spend the rest of his career on the battlecruiser.

The thought mocked him as he stepped into the checkpoint.  A pair of marines stood there, wearing masks and spacesuits.  Tobias tensed, recognising Colin even through the mask.  He knew his old bully too well to mistake him for anyone else, despite the protective garb.  It was all he could do to stand still as Colin pressed a sampler against his neck, then did the same to Marigold.  Tobias had to fight not to say something in protest.  Colin was only carrying out his orders ...

He’s grown up, Tobias told himself.  Colin and he had reached an understanding, he supposed, and yet ... there were times when he wished he’d taken the shot that would have blown Colin into atoms.  It wasn’t as if he wouldn’t have gotten away with it.  There’d been so much confusion that it was unlikely anyone would have realised the accident hadn’t been an accident at all.  He’s changed, for the better.

“You’re clear,” Colin said.  The voice was the same, even though the suit.  Colin’s insults had never been very clever, but they’d never had to be.  “I have orders to see you two to sickbay.”

Tobias nodded, not trusting himself to speak.  There’d been a time when Colin would have happily humiliated him in front of Marigold.  The only reason Colin hadn’t done it in front of his girlfriend at school was that he hadn’t had a girlfriend.  There was nothing like being a useless cowardly wimp to convince the girls to look somewhere - anywhere - else.  Now ... Tobias tried not to flinch as they started to walk.  The starship was clearly preparing for a hasty departure.  Hundreds of crew - and yarddogs - thronged the corridors, carrying out repairs or transporting spare parts to the hold.  Tobias stepped to one side as a trio of marines ran past, carrying a device that looked like a portable mecha.  He hadn’t seen anything like it outside a video game.

“We’ve been placed on twenty-four-hour warning to depart,” Colin said.  He sounded a little calmer now they were alone.  “Did you hear the news from London?”

“We were there,” Tobias said.  He wondered, suddenly, how many people Colin had killed.  Hundreds, probably, if not thousands.  He’d bet good money Colin slept well, too.  Tobias had had nightmares about the man he’d killed, even if it had been in self-defence.  “It was pretty bad.”

“No way!”  It was hard to be sure, but Colin sounded impressed.  “Really?”

“Yes.”  Marigold’s voice was flat.  “We were there.”

Tobias said nothing as they reached sickbay and stepped through the hatch.  The air was bright with UV lights, his skin itching under the glare.  Doctor Patty Haugen waved to them, then pointed to a pair of chairs.  She didn’t seem to be taking the risk of infection seriously, Tobias decided, although he supposed she had a point.  There was no reason to think that either Marigold or himself were infected.  Their wristcoms certainly hadn’t signalled an alert to anyone.

“I’ll see you later,” Colin said.  “Good luck.”

“Yeah,” Tobias said.  “Later.”

The doctor tested their blood, then nodded thoughtfully.  “Clean,” she said, as she pushed more sensors against their bare skin.  “No hints you might have been infected, or otherwise influenced.  Quite clear, all things considered.”

Tobias breathed a sigh of relief.  He’d known he hadn’t been infected ... no, he hadn’t really known.  How could he?  It wasn’t as if it was something he could control.  There was no way he could have been entirely sure he was uninfected.  A person could become contagious long before they started to show symptoms, spreading the disease without ever knowing what they were doing.  His blood ran cold.  The virus had found a way to speed the infection up.  What if it had found a way to slow things down?

“Thank you,” Marigold said.  “Are we really going to depart tomorrow?”

“We’ve been placed on alert, but it’s meaningless,” the doctor said.  “Realistically, we could be leaving any time from tomorrow to next week.  I suspect it means the brass themselves aren’t sure when we’ll be leaving.”

“Hurry up and wait,” Tobias said.

“Quite,” the doctor agreed.  “Better to be ready to go - and not need to go - then to be unready to depart.”

She made a shoeing motion at the hatch.  “I’ve performed the basic scans.  There’s no hint you need anything more complex for your routine physicals.  I’ll be seeing you again, but right now you’re at the back of the list.  Hopefully, nothing will happen to change that.”

Tobias nodded as he stood and headed for the hatch.  He’d never liked the routine medical examinations that had been a part of his life since childhood, even when they’d been conducted by professional doctors rather than underpaid nurses.  The school had always been more interested in boys who were fit enough to play football and other games ... he shook his head.  It had been pointless then and it was even more pointless now.  Colin had been a sporty bastard at school, and what had he become?  A Royal Marine!  Tobias would have been more impressed if he hadn’t been sure Colin had been conscripted into the bootnecks.

“It could be worse,” Marigold said, as they walked down the corridor.  “If either of us had been infected ...”

“I know.”  Tobias didn’t want to think about it.  “We were lucky.”

He shivered, again, as they reached gunboat country.  The compartment seemed largely empty, somewhat to his surprise.  They’d taken the early shuttle, but he’d always had the impression that half the squadron had remained on duty.  The bunk beds looked unclaimed, the nametags on the headboards blank ... he shrugged as he put his jacket on the bunk nearest the washroom, then headed down to check the storage compartment.  His handful of possessions should have been left there.

“Tobias,” a voice said.  “And Marigold.  Welcome home.”

“Thank you, sir,” Tobias said.  Colonel Richard Bagehot - they shared the same first name, but Tobias was sure no one had tried to make fun of the colonel’s name - was an odd duck, a strange mixture of drill instructor, cheerleader and father-figure.  He could switch from being warm, friendly and approachable to stern and cold in the blink of an eye.  “What happened to the others?”

“The squadrons are being reorganised,” Bagehot informed him.  “Two-thirds of the original group have already been reassigned, to share their knowledge elsewhere.  You two will be in charge of the new pilots, when they arrive.  I expect you to show them the ropes.”

“We’ll do our best, sir,” Marigold said.  “Does the assignment come with extra pay?”

“No, but it does come with a commendation for good work,” Bagehot said.  “If, of course, you do a good job.  You’re not going to replace me - at least, not yet - and we’re not asking you to train new pilots from scratch, but we do want you to answer the questions your instructors didn’t know to ask.”

Tobias smiled to hide his consternation.  “What is the price of sliced ham, per portion?”

Bagehot fixed him with a stern look.  “Relevant questions.”

“We’ll do our best,” Marigold said, again.  “When will the newcomers arrive?”

“This afternoon, unless their shuttle gets retasked again on short notice,” Bagehot said, a hint of irritation entering his voice.  “There haven’t been any formal orders, not yet, but - from what I’ve heard - we’re going to be departing in a fortnight.  And we’re not the only ones.  Flights from Luna have been rescheduled or cancelled or ...”

He shook his head.  “That’s well above your pay grade,” he said.  “Don’t worry about it.  Get some rest, spend some time thinking about what you wish you’d known, when you became gunboat pilots.  Make sure you add it to your reports, too.  People who’ve never flown a gunboat in their lives are so ignorant that they’re ignorant of their own ignorance.  You have to make sure they know, at least on paper, what to expect.”

Tobias frowned as Bagehot left the room, the hatch hissing closed behind him.  “What do we know that we don’t know?”

“I don’t know.”  Marigold laughed.  “What do you wish you’d known before you started?”

“I don’t know!”  Tobias shook his head.  “But seriously ...”

He considered it for a long moment.  He wasn’t sure what he could tell the newcomers that they didn’t already know.  They’d slept in barracks while they’d been at the academy, unless they’d been permitted to commute from Clarke or one of the other lunar cities.  It didn’t seem likely, somehow.  Luna Academy was on the moon, but not of it.  Flying gunboats?  The new cadets would have practiced on simulations based on their first missions.  Relationships with the rest of the ship’s crew?  Somehow, Tobias doubted his experience was the sort of experience the newcomers should emulate.  What were the odds of another bullied schoolboy finding his bully assigned to the same ship?

Not as low as one might wish, Tobias thought.  It wasn’t as if the navy gave much of a damn about our childhoods.

“My mind has gone blank,” he confessed.  “I can’t think of anything worth mentioning.”

“We can show them around our compartment, if nothing else,” Marigold said, after a moment’s thought.  “And we can show them how to tend to their craft.”

Tobias nodded.  Gunboat maintenance hadn’t been part of the training course.  They’d had to pick the basics up from the engineering teams, when it had become apparent that the starship’s crew would be overstretched.  Tobias knew he couldn’t build a drive system from scratch or repair a targeting system, but he could replace a damaged section - if he had a spare component on hand - or jury-rig a spare part intended for the battlecruiser if there was no other choice.  Everything was designed to be modular anyway.  And, in theory, he knew how to do a great deal more.

In theory, he reminded himself.  You’ve never done it in the real world.

“True,” he said, finally.  “And their questions might lead us to the answers.”

He keyed the wall-mounted terminal, checking for orders.  There were none, beyond the command to prepare for departure.  Anything else was clearly classified well above him ... probably.  It was unlikely Captain Hammond or his XO would have decided to prepare the ship for a hurried departure on a whim.  The wear and tear on the equipment, and the crew, would be quite substantial.

“No orders,” he said.  “Where do you think we’re going?”

“I have no idea,” Marigold said, primly.  She picked up a datapad and looked up the records from the first few weeks onboard ship.  “And, right now, I think it isn’t our problem.”

***

“I trust you had a good leave?”

Corporal Colin Lancaster straightened to attention as he followed Sergeant Ron Bowman into the officer’s compartment.  It belonged to Captain Curt McConnell, but there was no sign of their superior officer.  Colin was still very new to the Royal Marines - he was surprised he’d been allowed to keep his stripe, which he’d earned on his first deployment - yet he’d seen enough to be sure the ship was preparing for something important, perhaps even decisive.

“It was ... interesting, Sarge,” Colin said.  He’d resisted the temptation to go home, after discovering what had become of his old school friends.  Cronies, as Tobias would probably have put it.  “I went mountaineering instead.”

“A good idea,” Bowman agreed.  “And did anything interesting happen?”

Colin smiled.  “I rescued a girl called Clementine from certain death.  She was very unhappy and said she didn’t need my help.  But her father treated me to enough drinks to make up for it, so I went climbing with him the following day instead.”

Bowman laughed.  “Next time, tell a more convincing lie, or at least come up with some more interesting bullshit,” he said.  “I know the song too.”

“I met a mountaineering band,” Colin said.  “It was one of their songs.”

“Good, good,” Bowman said.  He met Colin’s eyes, signalling they were about to get serious.  “We don’t have any solid confirmation yet - everything keeps being changed - but it looks as if we’re going to get a full company of marines.  The unit will end up at full strength, when all the movements have been completed.  A handful of sections will be rotated out to share their experience.  It’s quite possible we will be hitting another alien world.”

Colin grimaced.  “Shit.”

“Quite.”  Bowman looked him in the eye.  “If everything goes as the CO plans, your platoon will be - technically - detached from the rest of the company.  On paper, you’ll be a reserve unit.  In practice, you have a very special duty.”

“I see,” Colin lied.  It wasn’t like the sergeant to dance around the subject.  It suggested bad news.  Ceremonial duties?  It didn’t seem likely.  Colin knew he wasn’t very photogenic.  The guards outside Buckingham Palace, he’d been told, had all been chosen for their looks as well as their fighting skill.  “Sarge ...”

“You’ll have to integrate a very special soldier into your platoon,” Bowman explained.  “And treat him as one of your own.”

Colin blinked.  “A foreigner?”

It was possible, he supposed.  American and French officers had been integrated into British military formations before, and vice versa.  He’d never heard of one being integrated into the Royal Marines, although he supposed it was possible.  Foreign officers and soldiers had been trained in British facilities ... he doubted, somehow, that the newcomer was American or French.  They had their own training facilities.  An Arab?  That was going to be interesting.

“In a manner of speaking,” Bowman said.  He picked up a datapad and held it out.  “His real name is something none of us can pronounce, but we’re calling him Kevin.”

Colin stared as he opened the file.  The face wasn’t human.  Very definitely not human.  “A Vesy?”

“Yes,” Bowman said.  “Kevin - and no, I don’t know who suggested the name - has been assigned to the ship.  There’s a complicated political quid pro quo involved, from what I’ve heard.  He’s trained on human equipment, tactics and protocols ... according to the paperwork, he’s no better or worse than the average boot who’d just completed commando training.”

“Fuck,” Colin said.  “How the ...”

“Read the file,” Bowman said.  “Kevin has been assigned to your platoon.  He’ll get a taste of modern war, without being expected to do anything too important.  If things go well, it will prove that Vesy can handle modern society.  If they don’t ...”

“Fuck,” Colin repeated.  “With all due respect, Sergeant, we’re heading into harm’s way.”

“Quite,” Bowman agreed.  “Kevin is not onboard to serve as a diplomatic rep or anything other than a marine.  He’s quite willing to go in harm’s way and understands that yes, he might not be coming back from this.  I expect you to treat him as one of your own.  If he does turn into a problem, or if you can’t integrate him into the platoon, he’ll be confined to quarters for the duration, but ... realistically, we expect you to handle him like any other boot.”

“Yes, Sarge,” Colin said, automatically.  He had the nasty feeling he’d just been given a poisoned chalice.  It was hard enough to integrate women, or foreigners, into a tight-knit military unit.  Integrating an outright alien ... he wasn’t sure it could be done.  The Vesy weren’t human.  The reptilian face staring up at him was very inhuman.  “Does he even eat the same food?”

“He eats the same as us, and quite a bit more,” Bowman said.  “Good luck.”

“I think I’ll need it,” Colin said, darkly.  “When’s he due to arrive?”

“Unless things change, again, you have a couple of days to read the file and make preparations,” Bowman said.  “You’re keeping the rest of your platoon, so - if things go well - you’ll have an oversized unit under your command.”

Sure, Colin thought.  It was a challenge.  He wanted to succeed.  But, at the same time, he was very aware of the risks.  And if things don’t go well, I’ll find myself holding the bag.

Chapter Eight

“Overall, Captain, we’re ready to depart,” Commander Staci Templeton said.  “When are you coming back onboard?”

Mitch felt a pang of guilt.  The last two days had been hectic.  They’d been back and forth between Earth and Nelson Base twice, moving between military and diplomatic conferences to private political briefings that didn’t - as far as he could tell - require his presence.  The operation might have been authorised, according to the admiral, but it felt as though the politicians were having second and third thoughts about the entire thing.  Mitch couldn’t believe it.  The alien catapults were a knife pointed at their heart.  They had to be taken out, at the very least.  And the admiral’s plan to capture and use them instead appealed to his tactical mind.  The human race was losing the war.  It was time to stake everything on a single desperate gamble.

And that’s something Captain Hammond will never understand, he thought, sourly.  There comes a time when prudence must be put aside.

He dismissed the thought with a flicker of irritation.  “I’m hoping to be back onboard in a couple of days,” he said.  He’d been meant to return to his ship yesterday.  “Have you had any issues you can’t handle?”

“Well, I can’t carry out the coup without someone to launch a coup against,” Staci said, deadpan.  “Other than that, we’re ready to go.  We could leave tonight if we wanted.”

Mitch nodded.  Staci was an extremely competent XO.  She was also in line for command of the next frigate, when it was finally released into active service.  It wouldn’t be that difficult a transition for her.  Frigate crews had always had a degree of informality the larger ships lacked.  She’d have more problems if she had to take command of a battleship or fleet carrier.  Her role, and that of her new XO, would be far more sharply defined.

“I’m sorry to leave you in command,” he said.  He meant it, too.  It was one thing to put her in command when they were on active service, when she could gain valuable experience for her next promotion, but leaving her in command while the ship was floating in orbit wasn’t quite the same.  It was more like leaving her holding the bag while he enjoyed a relaxing shore leave.  “I’ll be back up as soon as possible.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Staci said.  “We’ll try not to leave without you.”

Mitch laughed as he keyed the terminal, closing the connection.  It was hard not to envy his XO.  He was a captain, commanding officer of a starship, but here - in the Admiralty Building - he was one of the lower-ranked officers.  It was hard to believe, yet it was true.  The pen-pushers and data-miners infesting the building actually outranked him, when he wasn’t on his ship.  A captain could issue orders to an admiral when they were on the bridge, but not on the planet.  And it would be a brave or foolish captain who tried.

He smiled, humourlessly, as he made his way back into the conference room.  He’d had the impression that only a few officers knew the whole plan, but ... it was clear that hundreds of personnel knew aspects of the truth.  It didn’t strike him as being very secure.  The MOD staffers might have passed repeated polygraph tests, just to make sure they were loyal, but the virus laughed at such precautions.  A man could be turned into an unwitting traitor overnight and no one would so much as suspect a thing until it was too late.  The latest reports from the viral attack were terrifying.  If there was another attack in the heart of London, it was quite possible it could take out much of the government before anyone could react.

Which isn’t too likely to happen, he thought.  But there’s no way we can be sure.

He sighed, inwardly, as he slipped back into his seat.  An admiral - someone who’d never commanded a ship in battle, if Mitch was any judge - was discoursing rapidly on something he didn’t understand.  Mitch tried not to look contemptuous as the desk jockey went on and on, feeling rather like a schoolboy forced to sit through a boring assembly.  His old headmaster had been remarkably fond of the sound of his own voice ... no doubt, Mitch reflected, a legacy from his bid to become an MP.  Thankfully, he hadn’t been elected.  It had probably never crossed his mind that his constituents weren’t a captive audience.

I don’t need to be here, he thought, sourly.  He really was a junior officer.  Admiral Onarina and her staff would make the decisions, then send the orders to their subordinates.  Mitch would snap to attention, salute and do as he was told.  Why do they even want me here?

He tried not to sigh again as his eyes wandered the room.  A handful of foreign officers, their faces masks that suggested they were as bored as he was; a cluster of British officers who were paying rapt attention.  Captain Hammond was sitting on the other side of the room, his fingers dancing on a datapad.  Taking notes, the little swot.  Mitch knew he was being unfair, but it was hard to care.  He really didn’t have a place in the chamber.  He should be back on his ship, preparing for departure.  His XO wouldn’t really mount a coup, but ... it looked bad to leave everything to her.  There was nothing like arranging and supervising everything to give you a solid idea precisely how things stood upon departure.

Admiral Onarina called a halt, what felt like days later.  Mitch stood and joined the exodus of officers, some not even pretending they weren’t hurrying to the toilets.  His lips twitched in amusement.  It really was like school.  Leaving the assembly ahead of time was a serious crime, according to the headmaster.  Bastard had never really considered that his pupils had small bladders and short attention spans.  

His wristcom bleeped.  Mitch glanced at the incoming message and blinked.  An invitation to walk out of the Admiralty Building and meet ... meet who?  His eyes narrowed.  It wasn’t as if he’d expected to meet someone in London.  It wasn’t as if he’d so much as known he’d be going back to London until the orders had arrived.  He’d thought he’d be heading straight to his ship ... he frowned, turning the matter over and over in his head.  Who had his private comcode?  There weren’t many people who did, most of whom would sooner use the military net.  Mitch’s family wouldn’t come to London to see him.  And that left ... who?

A reporter, perhaps, Mitch thought.  He wouldn’t put it past a particularly unscrupulous reporter to obtain his comcode, either from his family or one of his lady friends.  Or ... who?

He was halfway towards the door before he’d quite realised he was going to meet the mystery person.  It was something to do, something different before he boarded the shuttle back to his ship ... assuming, of course, he wasn’t recalled to London again.  And again ... a flash of irritation shot through him.  Spaceflight might be routine, these days, but it wasn’t as if travelling backwards and forwards wasn’t a major commitment.  Nelson Base wasn’t in Tottenham Court Road, a short walk from Whitehall.  He’d spent more time in transit than he’d spent doing something useful.  He checked his schedule, just to be sure nothing was booked for later.  The last thing he needed was for someone to declare him AWOL.

The streets were dull, the dark clouds throwing shadow over the city.  The weather had never been quite the same since the Bombardment, Mitch had been told, although he’d read complaints about the English weather that dated all the way back to Julius Caesar.  He glanced upwards, silently gauging the likelihood of rain, then hurried down the street.  A dark car sat at the end, waiting for him.  If it was a reporter, he could have the pleasure of telling him to fuck off.  Politely, of course.  The admiral would not be pleased if the reporter filed an official complaint.  It wouldn’t look good on his record.

He slowed as he approached the car.  There were no visible number plates, suggesting ... what?  An official vehicle?  Or ... or what?  He didn’t know.  Cars had to have number plates in clear view, if he recalled correctly.  The window opened, revealing ... Mitch blinked in shock.  Charlotte was sitting in the car, waiting for him.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Charlotte said.  The door opened, revealing an interior compartment that seemed surprisingly roomy.  “Come on in.”

Mitch had to smile as he climbed inside.  The interior was larger than his first cabin, back when he’d been promoted to lieutenant.  There was a single large sofa, a small drinks cabinet ... he shook his head in astonishment.  It felt more like a luxury shuttle than a groundcar.  The door closed behind him, the vehicle moving away from the curb.  It crossed Mitch’s mind to wonder if he’d been kidnapped.  He certainly hadn’t expected to meet Charlotte in London.  He hadn’t expected to meet her at all.

He studied her as the vehicle picked up speed, passing through the security checkpoints and merging with the traffic without being stopped.  Charlotte wore a long fur coat that rose from her ankles to her neckline, concealing everything behind a wall of white fluff.  She looked as if she’d spent hours getting ready to come out ... she looked like a respectable lady, out for tea with her friends.  Mitch had seen women like her, drinking daintily in teahouses as they alternatively welcomed their friends or cut them dead.  He’d disliked and envied them in equal measure.  And yet, Charlotte wasn’t quite what she seemed.  How many others had lived a double life?

Mitch found his voice.  “What are you doing here?”

Charlotte mimed being hurt.  “And there I was thinking you’d be pleased to see me.”

“I am,” Mitch said, too quickly.  He wasn’t sure that was true.  He might not have anything on his schedule, now the meeting was over, but the admiral could call on him at any moment.  She would not be pleased if he was unavailable.  And yet, why would she want him?  It wasn’t as if she needed his advice.  “I’m just wondering ...”

“I came to London to shop,” Charlotte said, favouring him with a smile.  “And I just thought it would be nice to see you again.”

Mitch had to smile.  “It is” - he swallowed hard, suddenly unsure of himself - “it is nice to see you again too.”

Charlotte nodded and started to open her coat.  Mitch stared, feeling his manhood stir as she undressed piece by piece.  He started to fumble with his dress uniform, cursing - once again - the sadist who’d designed it.  It wasn’t easy to undress in the car, but ... he couldn’t believe what they were doing.  His heart raced as he glanced at the front.  Making love on the backseat of a car was one thing - he’d done that when he’d been younger - but the car hadn’t been moving at the time.  And he’d been the driver.

He indicated the front.  “What about ...?”

“Brinkley won’t say anything,” Charlotte said.  She pulled down her underwear and stood, magnificently naked, in front of him.  “Come here.”

Mitch stared, drinking in the sight.  She was ... she wasn’t the perfect girl of his imagination, when he’d been a teenager; she wasn’t the ideal woman of everything from adverts to porn films.  She wasn’t ... and yet, he found her arousing beyond words.  He wasn’t sure what drew her to him, what pushed common sense out of his mind.  She knew what she wanted and she worked to get it, putting her dignity aside along with her clothes.  Cold logic told him he was risking everything, by sleeping with an aristocrat’s wife.  But cold logic was nothing faced with the reality of her body.  He wanted her.  And that was all there was to it.

He stood and stumbled towards her, feeling like a horny teenager again.  Charlotte reached for him and pulled him to her.  And then there was nothing but her ...

***

“The Tadpoles are due to arrive tomorrow,” Admiral Onarina said.  They stood together in a small office, briefly assigned to the admiral.  “Once they’re embedded in the formation, we’ll be departing.”

Thomas nodded, wondering - idly - where Captain Campbell had gone.  The younger man wasn’t needed - Thomas himself wouldn’t be needed if he hadn’t had powerful connections - but it was still annoying not to have him around.  The staff officers were starting to grate on Thomas’s nerves.  They didn’t seem sure how they should treat him.  And the officers who didn’t have any real combat experience were worse.

“It should be interesting, Admiral,” Thomas said.  That was an understatement.  Human navies shared the same command and control protocols, along with a great deal of technology.  Three brutal interstellar wars had taught the human race the importance of ensuring their systems were as compatible as possible.  But the Tadpoles weren’t human.  Everything about them was different.  “How are we going to get everyone moving in the same direction?”

“It won’t be easy,” Admiral Onarina said, grimly.  “Even now that we know the stakes ...”

She shook her head.  Thomas could fill in the blanks.  The foreign governments weren’t entirely keen on their ships operating under British command.  God knew the British government would feel the same, if things were reversed.  There were times when it felt as if GATO, and the planned Amalgamation, was so fragile that the slightest misstep could bring the whole edifice tumbling down.  There was no shortage of naysayers, just waiting for an excuse to say “I told you so.”  The more Thomas thought about it, the more he wondered if they were right.  Globalisation had led to a whole string of disasters, including some that had almost destroyed civilisation.  Who could say Amalgamation wouldn’t lead to similar issues?

He banished the thought with a flicker of irritation.  It wasn’t his job to question his political superiors, not in his role as naval officer.  He had to carry out his orders to the best of his ability, or - if he found himself unable to do so - to resign.  And yet, not for the first time, he found himself caught between two roles.  Charlotte had been nagging him to resign from the navy and go into politics for years.  Thomas knew he’d hate it, but he was starting to think it was his duty.  The House of Lords needed naval officers who knew how things really worked.

And if Nelson himself had survived the years, Thomas mused, would his experience be any use to us now?

“I’ll be greeting the Tadpoles personally, in my role as Fleet Commander,” Admiral Onarina said.  “We’ll depart immediately afterwards, as planned, and do most of the shakedown work as we head to the target star.”

Thomas grimaced.  The individual ships were in good condition, or so he’d been assured, but none of the ships and their crews had experience working together.  It would take time, and days upon days of exercises, to discover any problems and smooth them out.  The idea of taking an unprepared fleet into battle chilled him to the bone.  Under normal circumstances, they would have spent weeks getting to know one another, learning what their comrades could and couldn’t do.  Now ...

He shook his head.  There was no point in debating the issue.  The fleet just didn’t have time to settle down, not when the enemy were preparing their final blow.  They had to take out the catapults before it was too late or lose the war.  There were no other options.  Thomas would be surprised if there weren’t plans to preserve something of humanity, but such plans would be incredibly risky.  There was no guarantee the human race would survive.  

And the virus will just keep coming and coming until the entire galaxy is infested, he thought, grimly.  There were people who thought the virus was a weapon of war, one that had escaped its creators and started to spread uncontrollably.  Others thought it was laying the groundwork for its creators to take over, once all active spacefaring races had been infected and subdued.  And still others thought it was just something truly alien.  We have to win completely or lose.

“You’ll be the senior British officer, after me,” Admiral Onarina warned.  “If something happens to me” - her dark eyes narrowed - “I want you to start thinking about contingency plans.  The chain of command is clear, but ...”

Thomas nodded.  The Russian and Chinese officers wouldn’t be happy serving under an American officer.  The French - and the other lesser powers - wouldn’t be happy, either.  Charlotte had told him just how much horse-trading had gone on, behind the scenes, to convince the world governments to accept Admiral Onarina as fleet commander.  Hopefully, they wouldn’t make an issue of it if Admiral Onarina was killed in battle.  They were all experienced officers.  They should know better.

“Yes, Admiral,” he said.  The admiral’s command staff might well be killed with her.  Even if they weren’t, the fleet’s commander and second-in-command could hardly come from the same country.  “I’ll be ready.”

“I have no doubt of it,” Admiral Onarina said.  “Just remember, we cannot afford a war of attrition.”

“Yes, Admiral,” Thomas said.  “But I do feel we’re risking everything on one throw of the dice.”

“We are,” Admiral Onarina said, bluntly.  There was no doubt in her voice, for she knew, possibly better than he did, just how much could go wrong.  “And if there was any other choice ... believe me, I’d take it.”

Chapter Nine

I should have remained on a starship’s bridge, Susan thought, as her shuttle flew towards the alien ship.  If I hadn’t let them promote me ...

She rubbed her forehead, feeling a dull ache behind her temples.  She’d barely gotten any sleep, between holding meetings, smoothing out minor details that really should have been left to her staff and giving reassuring briefings to old ladies of both genders.  There was an endless list of orders she needed to approve, items she had to handle personally ... she shook her head.  She’d thought there was too much paperwork when she’d been in command of a ship, but she hadn’t known the half of it.  An admiral didn’t even have the satisfaction of knowing she was in command.

The shuttle quivered, slightly, as it altered course.  Susan turned, clearing her mind as the display updated rapidly.  The Tadpole superdreadnaught - the term had stuck - looked very much like a battleship, but there was something weirdly melted about the design.  Human ships were crude boxy shapes, thrown together from modular components; Tadpole ships looked as if they were made out of melted wax.  It wasn’t easy to pick out the weapons emplacements, or the sensor nodes buried within the hull.  Susan admired it absently, even as she contemplated how well she stacked up against a human ship.  The Tadpoles were the most advanced race in the known universe.  And if they decided to fight the human race for a second time ...

You’re being paranoid, she told herself.  The war started because of a misunderstanding.

She groaned, inwardly.  It was easy enough to predict, with a reasonable degree of certainty, what a human would do in any given situation.  As long as one had a shared understanding of the situation, it was possible to calculate contingencies and lay plans to handle any reasonable response.  But aliens were alien.  Susan was all too aware that it was simply impossible to do more than guess at their thinking, let alone predict their actions.  The Tadpoles, the Foxes, the Cows and the Vesy had their own ways of thinking.  The only consolation was that they understood humans as poorly as humans understood them.

The intercom bleeped.  “Admiral,” the pilot said.  “We will match docking ports in two minutes.”

“Understood,” Susan said.  “Keep the airlock sealed until I signal.”

She stood, feeling faintly absurd as she stripped and changed into her bathing suit.  The idea of going to a diplomatic conference naked ... she’d had nightmares about being naked in front of the class, the first time she’d had to give a presentation, but actually doing it ...?  She supposed it might have enlivened proceedings, at the cost of utterly destroying her reputation once and for all.  Here, though ... she shook her head as she tied back her hair, carefully locked her facemask into place and headed for the airlock.  The Tadpoles didn’t give a damn what she wore.  They probably didn’t care if she visited in person.  But she owed it to them to show the same courtesy she’d shown the others.

The airlock felt oddly warm as she stepped inside, the hatch hissing closed behind her.  Susan took a breath, tasting something unpleasant at the back of her throat.  The facemask hadn’t been used for quite some time.  She put the minor discomfort out of her mind as the inner hatch started to open, feeling a frisson of panic as yellowish water spilled into the airlock compartment.  It felt warm, against her bare feet.  Susan calmed herself as the water rose rapidly, reminding herself she was perfectly safe.  She couldn’t help checking and rechecking the facemask, just to make sure it was firmly in place.  If it came off, while she was in the alien ship, she would drown.  Drowning in space ... her lips quirked.  That would look bloody stupid when someone wrote her obituary.

She padded forward as the gravity field shifted, then faded completely.  The Tadpoles preferred zero-g to artificial gravity, probably because they spent most of their lives in the ocean rather than on the land.  The water seemed to brighten as she swam into the alien ship, an eerie bioluminescence pulsing from everywhere and nowhere ... as if the water itself was glowing.  She took a long breath as she spotted the Tadpoles waiting for her, three of them.  It was easy to see why the first humans to meet them face to face had thought they were nothing more than beasts.  On land, they looked like shambling parodies of humanity; in the water, they looked almost completely different.  It was hard to believe they weren’t two different species.

“We greet you,” the Tadpoles said in unison.  Susan’s facemask picked up the words and transmitted them to her.  It had been over two decades since the war and yet ... it was hard to be entirely sure the translation was accurate.  The Tadpoles lacked concepts humans considered important and vice versa.  “Welcome.”

“I thank you, in the name of the human race,” Susan said, carefully.  The diplomats had had headaches, when they tried to put together a common language.  The more they tried to dance around an issue, the harder it became to translate.  “We request that you approve our plan.”

The Tadpoles moved suddenly, spinning around each other in a complicated dance that wouldn’t be possible in normal gravity.  Susan shivered, despite the warmth.  The Tadpoles were less ... individualistic than humans, she’d been told.  They did everything in groups ... factions.  She didn’t really understand it.  No one did.  Her training told her that a starship couldn’t be run by council, that the crew couldn’t vote on anything, but ... the Tadpoles made it work.  Somehow.  She supposed it was hard for them to conceal their thinking from their fellows.   A human dictatorship could convince each and every dissident that they were completely alone.  The Tadpoles couldn’t do that.

“Your plan is sound.”  The dance came to an end.  Susan couldn’t tell if the Tadpoles had switched places or not.  They all looked the same to her.  No doubt they thought the same of their human allies.  “We will assist with Phase One and proceed to Phase Two if it appears workable.”

Susan breathed a sigh of relief.  “I thank you,” she said, again.  She hadn’t dared hold out hope for anything more.  The Tadpoles wouldn’t commit themselves to striking deep into enemy territory until they knew it was possible.  “We can ask for no more.”

The aliens withdrew, moving back into the shadows.  It was rude, by human standards, but ... she shook her head.  The interview was over.  She found it oddly refreshing.  She’d had to spend too much time making small talk with people she detested, people who didn’t give a damn about her or ... anything, really, beyond their own power.  The Tadpoles didn’t care about human etiquette.  She wondered, as she turned and swam back to the airlock, why they’d agreed to the meeting in the first place.  Had they considered it a diplomatic requirement?  Or were they trying to humour their human allies?

She shelved the question as she swam back into the airlock, then keyed the hatch closed.  The water level dropped sharply as it was pumped out, into the tanks.  Susan ran her hands through her hair, promising herself a shower as the shuttle headed back to the flagship.  Her hair hadn’t felt so grimy since the Second Interstellar War.  Back then, the universe had seemed much simpler.  They hadn’t known about the virus or what it could do.

The intercom bleeped as she hurried into the washroom.  “Admiral?”

“Take us back to the flagship,” Susan ordered.  She should have enough time for a quick shower.  “And inform the Admiralty that the meeting was a success.”

Her lips curved into a smile as she stepped into the washroom and turned on the shower.  It hadn’t been a long meeting, but she hadn’t expected it to last more than a few minutes at most.  They never did.  The Tadpoles understood humans found their native environment as unsettling and uncomfortable as they did the surface world.  Susan nodded to herself as she undressed and stepped into the warm shower.  Humans and Tadpoles didn’t need to fight over anything.  They could share entire worlds without any real contact.

And the virus threatens us all, she mused.  They may not think like us, but they understand the danger as well as we do.

***
 
“I got to say,” Private Scott Davies said as they waited by the airlock, “I thought this was someone’s idea of a joke.”

Colin gave him a sharp look.  It was impossible to imagine Sergeant Bowman playing a joke on anyone, let alone his subordinates.  The man had rotated between active service and training duties for longer than Colin had been alive.  He was strict - and no one crossed him twice - but fair.  He wouldn’t set someone up for a pratfall.  

And certainly not like this, Colin thought.  He’d read the files very carefully, then read them again just to be sure he’d hit the high points.  It was clear that whoever was behind the assignment wanted it to succeed.  Perhaps.  The cynic in Colin knew there were people who would openly promise the moon while covertly sabotaging their own efforts.  He wouldn’t have volunteered me for the post if he didn’t have faith in me.

He sucked in his breath.  The Vesy had been a primitive race when they’d been discovered by a bunch of Russian deserters.  The deserters had thought, at first, that they were the last remnants of humanity and set out to turn the Vesy into allies for a war of revenge.  And then they’d discovered they weren’t the last after all, which meant they’d be hung for desertion when their countrymen caught up with them.  They’d become space pirates - the first and only known space pirates in history - until HMS Warspite had stumbled across their operations and liberated the system from their control.  The Vesy had become, to all intents and purposes, a client race.  No one was very comfortable with the situation.

The airlock hissed as it started to open.  Colin tensed.  The files had made it clear that the human settlers were trying to uplift the Vesy, without making them into pale copies of humanity or shattering their spirit once and for all.  They’d been finding ways for the Vesy to earn money ... Colin wasn’t sure what he thought of that.  It was a good way to make someone dependent, without making it so obvious it couldn’t be ignored.  And yet, what did they have to sell?  Only themselves.

He sucked in his breath as he saw the alien for the first time.  Kevin - he promised himself he’d have a few sharp words with whoever had suggested the name - was alien.  He kicked himself, mentally.  Of course Kevin was alien.  It was just hard to believe.  He hadn’t seen many aliens in his career, unless one counted the zombies.  And they’d been human before they’d been infected.

Colin forced himself to look the alien up and down.  The Vesy struck him as fundamentally wrong.  He was humanoid, wearing a standard battledress tailored to his body, but his proportions were all ... strange.  Alien.  He was tall, with scaly skin and a nose that looked as if it was a weird cross between a lizard’s nose and a pig’s snout.  A handful of feathers seemed to be growing out of his head.  Colin couldn’t help thinking of them as a mane.

Kevin saluted.  “Permission to come aboard, sir?”

“Granted,” Colin said, automatically.  The alien’s voice was strange - no one would be mistaking him for human any time soon - but understandable.  “Welcome onboard.”

He watched the alien walk out of the shuttlecraft and onto the ship.  Kevin moved like a dancer ... like a lizard, Colin’s brain pointed out.  It looked as if he could run a great deal faster than the average human, something Colin vaguely remembered from the files.  He made a mental note to go through them again, just in case he’d missed something.  God alone knew how the attachment was going to work out.  The only thing he knew for sure was that there were surprises in store.

“Come with me,” he ordered.  His orders were to treat the alien like any other newcomer to the section.  “This way.”

He turned, all too aware of the alien at his back.  Whatever his orders said, it was hard to accept the alien as one of his men.  He gritted his teeth, telling himself that the Vesy had gone through the same commando training as he had.  And yet ... he hadn’t heard of the program until now.  He was surprised he hadn’t heard so much as a whisper, even from the older marines and officers.  Someone had probably worked overtime to make sure no one spoke out of turn.

They walked past a handful of crewmen, all of whom gaped at the newcomer.  Colin smiled, despite himself.  They’d have to get used to seeing the alien, somehow.  Kevin would have to jog with the other marines, as well as carrying out hundreds of emergency drills until he could perform his duties in his sleep.  Colin grimaced as he remembered just how much anti-alien feeling there was, down on Earth.  The Bombardment had hardened a lot of attitudes.  The Vesy weren’t responsible for that - they couldn’t so much as leave their homeworld without help - but he couldn’t count on people being smart enough to believe it.  They’d probably find it easier to think one alien looked just like another ...

Never mind that they’re two different species, Colin thought.  Idiots.

He sighed, inwardly, as he led the way into the tiny briefing compartment.  Bowman had assigned it to the platoon, a favour Colin was sure came with invisible strings attached.  The rest of his men stood to attention as he entered, something that surprised him.  He was only a very junior corporal, not a lieutenant or a captain or ... he shook his head.  Right now, it didn’t matter.  He’d worry about it later.

And if a junior screws up, he thought morbidly, everything can be blamed on him.

“Stand at ease,” he ordered, watching Kevin out of the corner of his eye.  The alien relaxed slightly, very slightly.  It was hard to tell if the Vesy was actually standing at ease or not.  “This is Kevin and ...”

“Hey,” Private Adams said.  “What’s your real name?”

Kevin produced a hissing sound that reminded Colin of a teakettle on the brink of boiling.  He wasn’t sure how Kevin made the noise and he was sure he couldn’t make it himself.  The planners had been right, he decided, to give Kevin a human name.  He made a mental note to have a series of long conversations with the alien, just to test his command of the English language.  Kevin shouldn’t have any real problems, if he’d been through commando training, but it was well to be sure.  Commando training was brutal, harsh enough to sort the men from the boys, yet it had one glaring weakness.  Like all emergency training, it left out the emergency.

Colin cleared his throat.  “We will be running training sims from now until departure,” he said.  If there was one advantage to being on semi-detached duty, it was a certain freedom to run his training exercises the way he wanted them.  “I expect each and every one of you to work towards our development.  If the rumours are true” - he’d heard all sorts of rumours, some so insane he couldn’t even begin to believe them - “we’re heading deep into enemy space.  I want to be ready to give the virus hell, when we meet it again.  Any questions?”

There were none.  Colin breathed a sigh of relief.  Life hadn’t been easy for an immigrant family in Birmingham - he cursed himself under his breath, remembering that he’d been just as much of an arsehole as everyone else - and they’d been human.  The girl he’d sneered at had grown into an exotic young woman ... he shook his head.  He really had been an arsehole when he’d been a kid.  Perhaps he should write her a note of apology, if he could find her again.  He didn’t have the slightest idea where she’d gone.  It was hard to believe she’d wanted to stay in Birmingham ...

“Good,” he said.  He motioned for Kevin to sling his carryall under the table - thankfully, he could fit in a human-sized bunk - and then led the way to the training room.  “Let’s go.”

Sergeant Bowman passed them as they entered the chamber.  Colin was sure he’d be watching through the concealed pickups, gauging Colin’s performance as well as the newcomer’s.  Colin wasn’t sure how he felt about that.  The assignment might see him promoted, if things went well, or it might cost him his shot at a commission and company command.  He groaned, inwardly, as he activated the simulators.  Promotion was swift in wartime - the war killed far too many promising young officers - but it wouldn’t come if he had a major black mark on his record.  And who knew what he’d do with himself then?

I’ll think of something, he thought.  Until then ... I’ll give it my best shot.

The simulation came online, projecting a handful of holographic targets.  His stomach churned as he saw women and children in the infected horde.  Ten years ago, accidentally hitting a civilian would have meant a beasting from the instructors.  Now, infected civilians could be as dangerous as everyone else.  He wondered, idly, what Kevin thought of firing on humans.  It was hard to believe the Vesy loved their human patrons.  Colin had had enough experience with do-gooders who thought they were helping to loathe them without reservation.

A problem for another time, he mused.  A holographic image leapt at him and he stopped it with a holographic bullet.  Right now, we have other problems.