The Lion and the Unicorn

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  “We also know we didn’t bring anything back with us,” Major Craig continued. “Thoughts?”

  “With all due respect,” Lieutenant Pringle said, “we were in cold space. There was no real risk of bringing anything unfriendly back.”

  “People can be cryogenically frozen, then restored to life,” Major Craig pointed out, calmly. “Viruses can be frozen too and” - he held up a hand - “while the boffins may claim that the virus is too complex to be frozen, we cannot take it for granted. An ounce of prevention is better than a pound of cure.”

  “Particularly when the cure involves killing a friend,” someone muttered from the rear.

  “Precisely,” Major Craig agreed. “We don’t want to wind up shooting our friends.”

  He paused, letting the words hang in the air. “Lion has orders to return to Earth. We’ll spend the transit going through everything that happened, pooling our knowledge for the folks back home. There may be something of importance in the recordings, there may not be. We’ll see how things go. After that …shore leave. Probably.”

  Davies nudged Colin. “Where do you want to go for leave?”

  Colin shrugged. He hadn’t given it any thought. Going home was damn depressing. His old man was a drunkard and his mother … Colin winced. No wonder he’d had so many problems at school. It had been a relief to leave. Maybe he’d go to Sin City or one of the spaceport strips or somewhere where the beer was cheap, the women were easy and the media was banned. Or …

  “Get some rest,” Major Craig ordered. “We’ll be going back to work tomorrow.”

  “No rest for the wicked,” Sergeant Bowman agreed.

  Colin nodded as he stood, saluted and headed for the barracks. There’d be a shitload of work tomorrow, starting with a full debriefing. He’d have to outline everything he’d seen on the alien ship, adding what little he recalled to humanity’s ever-growing body of knowledge. He wondered, idly, if they’d really seen anything new. The alien ships were just plain weird, familiar enough that the differences were disconcerting. He would almost have preferred something truly alien.

  And … he frowned as he remembered the gunboat pilot. Why had he been so scared?

  Worry about it later, he told himself. He felt tired, mentally rather than physically. It was funny - he’d worked himself harder during basic training - but there was no point in denying it. There were stimulants he could use, none of which were permitted unless there was desperate need. Right now, we’re in the clear. It’s time to go rest.

  “We won,” Willis said, slapping Colin’s shoulder. “You want to go celebrate?”

  “Go rest,” Colin ordered. “Tomorrow is another day.”

  ***

  Thomas waited, watching calmly as the steward poured three mugs of tea, placed a tray of biscuits on the table and withdrew from the ready room. Commander Donker and Major Craig looked as tired as Thomas felt, although the glow of victory made it easier to deal with the aftermath of combat. Lion had only lost nine personnel in total; two gunboat pilots, four marines and three crewmen who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was impossible to be sure how many host bodies had died on the enemy fleet, but the total figure had to be quite high.

  Not that it matters, he thought, sourly. The virus doesn’t have to worry about training its personnel.

  He took a sip of his tea, then leaned forward. “We have our orders,” he said. “We’re to return to Earth. Immediately.”

  “They must not have rushed anything like enough missiles forward to support our operations,” Donker pointed out. “Without them, we’re just an oversized cruiser.”

  “Quite.” Thomas didn’t like the description, but he had to admit it was justified. “We handled ourselves well, I believe. Do you have any thoughts?”

  “Crew morale is through the roof,” Donker agreed. “There’s a general feeling we can handle anything, right now. There was some doubt over the whole concept, back when we were fitting out, but it’s gone now. We’ve proved we can make the battlecruiser concept work.”

  “Good,” Thomas said. Only a fool would ignore morale. The navy wasn’t composed of robots. Or zombies. “I’m sure the thought of shore leave will do wonders for morale too.”

  Major Craig raised his eyebrows. “Are we getting shore leave?”

  “I think so,” Thomas said. The navy generally tried to give everyone a week or two of shore leave between deployments, during wartime. Longer holidays were often harder to arrange. “I would be surprised if the Admiralty ordered us back home, just to order us to turn around and go back out again.”

  He sipped his tea, contemplating the possibilities. Charlotte would be pleased if he managed to make it to one of her balls, particularly if he invited Captain Campbell to attend in hopes of mending bridges. A famous war hero would be a very welcome guest. And … Thomas shrugged. Captain Campbell’s communications, since the two ships had linked up again, had been very formal. Thomas had no doubt the other man was still fuming.

  “They might have something else in mind for us,” Donker said. “We have the only battlecruiser-qualified crew in the navy.”

  Thomas shrugged. “We’ll see,” he said. “They’ll tell us when they tell us.”

  He picked up a biscuit and ate it slowly. There was no point in speculation. The Admiralty would tell them what it wanted when they got back to Earth. For all he knew, some bright spark had calculated it would be quicker to order Lion to return home to resupply, rather than shipping missiles to New Washington. The staff officer might even be right. Resupplying without specialised equipment wasn’t easy. He grimaced. They’d have to do something about that, if the navy decided to build an entire squadron of battlecruisers. Going all the way back to Earth would impose massive delays …

  “Right now, we have to work on doctrine,” he said, instead. “Does anything major need to be changed?”

  “The gunboats performed as advertised,” Donker said. “Statistically speaking, they also took fewer losses than the average starfighter squadron. The concept has now proven itself beyond reasonable doubt. I think we can safely suggest that larger ships be assigned gunboats for close-range protection as well as targeting and remote deployment.”

  “Quite,” Thomas said.

  “The tactical analysts are still working their way through the records,” Donker continued. “We caught the enemy by surprise. Next time, things will be harder. But they have a few ideas. We’ll just have to see how they work out in practice.”

  Thomas nodded. He knew that already. “Keep me informed,” he said. “Major?”

  “The marines performed well,” Major Craig said. “There was some light ribbing over shuttles that missed their targets, leaving the poor bootnecks stranded until they could repower their drives and escape, but nothing too serious. Given how quickly we threw the mission together, relying on largely untried troops, things went better than we had any right to expect. A couple of corporals proved themselves. I think they’ll get their stripes permanently.”

  “Good for them,” Thomas said. Traditionally, promotions within the Royal Marines were handled in-house, but the starship commander’s word carried weight. “I’ll countersign whatever recommendations you want to make.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Major Craig said. He tapped the datapad on the table. “It’ll take us several weeks to get home. By then, we should have learnt all our lessons.”

  “Agreed,” Donker said. He smiled, broadly. “If nothing else, we know we can fight and win.”

  “Quite,” Thomas agreed. He finished his tea. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

  “Aye, sir,” Donker said, as he stood. “Good night.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “I read your reports very carefully,” Admiral Onarina said, once tea had been served and the customary greetings had been exchanged. “Do you have anything you want to add to them?”

  Mitch hesitated, keeping his face carefully blank. He’d written a detailed report, pointing out
there’d been a chance to weaken the enemy still further … a chance that Captain Hammond had chosen to ignore. And yet, there were limits to how far he could go. Admiral Onarina would understand, but the remainder of the Admiralty would see it as rank insubordination. Probably. The risk of losing an experimental ship had to be balanced against the prospect of crippling, if not destroying, an enemy fleet.

  “I believe I included everything in my report,” Captain Hammond said. “My ship - both of our ships - performed well. The missiles lived up to their promise. The gunboats and marines served well, despite the simple fact it was the first taste of combat for many of them. Overall, I think the shooter and spotter concept has more than proven itself.”

  The admiral’s dark eyes moved to Mitch. “Do you agree, Captain?”

  “Yes, Admiral,” Mitch said. “The concept worked. We could have pushed things a little further, as I noted in my report, but the concept itself has been proven. We’re ready to go back out.”

  “Once the crew has taken some leave,” Captain Hammond said. “They need it.”

  Mitch conceded the point with a nod. “A week of being somewhere else would do wonders for my crew.”

  “Quite.” Admiral Onarina looked from Mitch to Captain Hammond and back again. “We have a specific mission in mind, for you and your ships. We’ll reconvene in a week, once all the groundwork has been laid. I trust that suits both of you?”

  “Yes, Admiral,” Mitch said. A week of shore leave - more accurately, three or four days - for everyone would definitely work wonders. There’d be time to visit Sin City, if nowhere else. Staci and he had already drawn up rough shore leave rosters, in hopes of making sure everyone who had a family had a chance to meet them before the ship headed back into harm’s way, but they hadn’t put anything in stone. “My crew will be delighted.”

  He smiled. Unicorn was too small to tolerate personality conflicts - he’d have moved a crewman on if he’d proved unable to handle his peers - but even a close-knit crew had problems from time to time. Hell, he had problems. It would be nice to pretend someone else had the responsibility for a few hours or so. It was just a shame he didn’t have anyone he wanted to see. His last relationship hadn’t survived his career.

  “Very good,” the admiral said. “I’ll see you both later.”

  Mitch stood and saluted. It was clearly a dismissal. Beside him, Captain Hammond stood, motioning for Mitch to follow him. Mitch was tempted to refuse, on the grounds they were no longer on deployment, but it would be churlish. Instead, they walked out of the admiral’s office and headed for the nearest empty conference room. It was clearly designed for high-ranking officers. The furnishings were of a very high quality indeed.

  “I forwarded you my wife’s invitation,” Captain Hammond said. “Did you reply?”

  Mitch blinked. The invitation had been a surprise. He’d never expected to receive a formal invitation to anything, at least outside the navy. Sure, a CO might invite him to a working lunch, but nothing else. He just wasn’t the sort of person who knew how to handle himself in a formal environment. Aristocratic manners were a closed book to him. He knew how to cope with a naval dinner and that was about it.

  But … he did have the invitation. And he had to reply.

  “I do have shore leave,” he said. He was reluctant to waste what little he had, but … there was no point in making enemies. Captain Hammond was a high-ranking aristocrat, and so was his wife. Hammond would understand if Mitch needed to be somewhere else, but there was no guarantee his wife would have the same understanding. He’d met enough scions of the aristocracy to doubt it. “If it’s alright with my commanding officer …”

  Captain Hammond snorted, dryly. “You would be welcome,” he said. “I’ll be shuttling down the night before, then staying two nights. I can have a room set up for you too, if you like.”

  “If you’ll have me,” Mitch said. He groaned, inwardly, at the prospect of losing most of his shore leave. “I might come and go on the same day.”

  “Stay one night,” Captain Hammond advised. “Unless you have somewhere else to be …”

  “It depends on my crew,” Mitch said. He cursed under his breath. Spending two nights in a mansion was hardly his idea of a good time. There had to be a better excuse. “My XO needs leave too.”

  Captain Hammond nodded. “It could be good for your career if you attend,” he said. “You’re a war hero.”

  “So are you,” Mitch said.

  He sighed. Captain Hammond had a point. The chance to meet his social superiors in an informal setting, or at least as informal as possible, was not to be missed. Who knew who’d help him, if he attended? Or hinder him, if he didn’t? Mitch detested the Old Boys Network with a passion, but he had to admit it had its uses. He could join, if he was willing to seek out a patron and kiss his ass …

  And how good are Hammond’s patrons, he asked himself, when he’s nearly fifteen years older than me and still a Captain?

  “We can make the arrangements,” he said, finally. He’d still have a day or two to visit Sin City. Or a red-light district. Or somewhere. “Let me know and I’ll work out something with my XO.”

  Captain Hammond nodded. “I’ll see you there,” he said. “Later.”

  He turned and left the compartment. Mitch sunk into a chair, feeling oddly as if he’d been outmanoeuvred. He didn’t want to go to a ball, even if it would be good for his career. He’d read a bunch of stories in the tabloids … he told himself, firmly, they probably weren’t true. But who knew …?

  It doesn’t matter, he thought, as he stood. Right now, I have work to do.

  ***

  Colin wondered, morbidly, if he was in trouble. The summons had arrived only two minutes ago, while he’d been eating dinner. He’d crammed the remains of his meal into his mouth, jumped to his feet and headed for the hatch before his mind had quite caught up with what was happening. Major Craig had summoned him, personally. It was odd. Perhaps he was in trouble. The marines had a flatter command structure than the navy, but not that flat. He forced himself to calm down as he stopped outside Major Craig’s office and pushed the buzzer. The hatch opened a second later, revealing a tiny compartment.

  “Come in,” Major Craig said. He was sitting behind a folding desk, putting a datapad to one side. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  “Sir,” Colin said, as he straightened to attention. He was fairly sure he hadn’t been given a choice. Requests from superiors were to be treated as orders, or so he’d been told. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Stand at ease,” Major Craig said. “Good news first. You and your team have been cleared for shore leave. You’ll have priority access to shuttles heading to Earth.”

  Colin kept his face carefully blank. “And the bad news?”

  “It may or may not be bad news,” Major Craig said. “Your former headmaster has been following your career. He’s put in a request for you to address the student body on the joys of being a Royal Marine.”

  “He has?” Colin blinked in surprise. “The Beast asked for me? Personally?”

  “Yes,” Major Craig said. “I trust that won’t be a problem.”

  Colin knew the right answer. “No, sir.”

  “You’ll take a shuttle to Earth tomorrow,” Major Craig said. He looked … surprisingly understanding. “Take some time to study PR guidelines. Try not to get into trouble. We want to convince people to join, not scare them off.”

  “Yes, sir,” Colin said, with the private thought that anyone who got scared off by him wouldn’t get through training anyway. “And afterwards?”

  “You’ll have four days of leave, to use any way you see fit,” Major Craig told him. “Just remember, if you miss the flight back, you’ll be in deep shit.”

  “Yes, sir,” Colin said. He probably wouldn’t be charged with going AWOL, not as long as he made sure to alert his superiors before they started looking for him, but he’d lose his stripe and there’d be a black mark in his record. �
�I won’t go too far from home.”

  “Like I said, use your leave in any way you see fit,” Major Craig said. “Go to Luna, if you like, or Mars. Or even London.”

  “Yes, sir,” Colin said. He shook his head in disbelief. “They really want to hear from me?”

  “It would appear so,” Major Craig said, with heavy sarcasm. “Your former headmaster asked for you specifically.”

  He nodded to the hatch. “Dismissed.”

  Colin saluted, then turned to leave. It made no sense. He’d done well on the football field, but his marks - particularly his final year marks - hadn’t been anything to write home about. His parents hadn’t given a shit, of course. He’d never thought the Beast gave much of a shit either. He’d overlook anything as long as a sporty student brought home the cup … he rolled his eyes. Maybe the Beast was looking for donations. That was absurd. Marines were paid well, but not that well. The cost of living was going up, month after month. He couldn’t afford to send anything to the school, even if he’d wanted to …

  He probably just wants me to tell the kids about all the hard work and knuckling under I did when I was a boy, he thought. He laughed, humourlessly. He hadn’t known what hard work was until he’d joined the marines. A shame I can’t tell them the truth.

  His datapad pinged as he headed down the corridor. He checked it, noting the orders and the attached travel vouchers. A day on detached duty - he wondered, absently, if he’d be paid - and then four days of leave. Four days … a reward, a punishment or a test? It would be quite easy to fall back into bad habits, now he didn’t have instructors breathing down his neck. He could meet his friends, he could … he shook his head. He had too much to lose. He couldn’t risk letting himself go.

  And I can go anywhere, within reason, he thought. There was no reason he had to stay in Liverpool. Quite the opposite, actually. That should be fun.