And a simulated death will still be held against me, she thought. And if others die because of me ...
She followed the marines, silently grateful for the hellish exercises they’d put her through when she’d arrived. Walking over the Beacons had been unpleasant - the old sweats had cheerfully informed her that she’d been steered away from the parts used by the SAS and Pathfinders - but it had built up her endurance. She might be cold, muddy and exhausted, but she could keep going. Behind her, she thought she heard the sound of engines. The enemy was clearly gearing up for another push. But Sergeant Roberts didn’t seem bothered, so she did her best to ignore the sound. The enemy might be deterred by the missile strike.
We hope, she thought. There’s no one in place to call in a second strike.
They reached the rendezvous point and stopped. Some enterprising soldier had set up a stove and was boiling water, allowing soldiers and marines to have a mug of tea. George removed her mug from her rucksack, found a teabag from her emergency supplies and joined the queue for water. The soldier’s eyes went wide when he saw her, glancing at her muddy chest as if he wasn't quite sure if she was male or female. George resisted the urge to giggle as he stared at her. She could probably have passed for a man, if someone hadn't already known she was a woman. She’d never been particularly well-endowed.
She sat down and drank her tea quickly, allowing the liquid to warm her. It wouldn't be long, she was sure, before they’d be going out on the march again. A dozen different units - soldiers and marines - seemed to have arrived at the RV point simultaneously, their sergeants hastily reorganising them into new units. It was a test, she suspected. Soldiers could fight well in their original units, but could they fight when plugged into another unit? Better to find out on the training field than on the battlefield.
A hand landed on her shoulder. “Bearing up, Georgina?”
George scowled. Lance Corporal George Michelet - they shared the same first name, at least as far as she was concerned - was an ass. Or someone determined to needle her into doing better ... she wasn't sure and she didn't really care. He reminded her of Lieutenant Charles Fraser, only Fraser had been pissed at her for her social standing instead of merely being a woman forcing her way into a man’s world. The fact that George hadn't really been offered a choice seemed lost on him.
“I could go on for years,” she lied. Her body was starting to ache, now she was sitting down, but she was damned if she was showing weakness. “How about you?”
“Make sure you eat something,” Michelet told her. It was impossible to tell if he was trying to help or setting her up for a fall. “A little bird says we’ll be on our way in five minutes.”
George eyed him for a long moment, then dug a ration bar out of her belt and opened it. The bar tasted like cardboard, but she’d been assured it contained all the nutrients a soldier needed on the battlefield. She was surprised they didn't taste better. Civilians might be given the tasteless bars to encourage them to buy more regular food, but soldiers? They didn't have much of a choice about what they ate on the battlefield. She wasn't the only one eating, either. Soldiers knew to eat when they could.
Sergeant Roberts called them to attention four minutes later, then led the squad out on a long march. George forced herself to keep moving, even though the ache was getting worse. The battlefield was shifting, apparently. She wanted to look at her terminal, to download the latest update, but she knew she didn't have time. They reached a hill and marched up it, turning when they reached the top. Smoke was rising from the south, suggesting that the enemy had resumed its advance. She listened, but heard nothing apart from the beating of her heart. It meant nothing. Battlefields, she’d been told, always had odd acoustics. One unit might be under attack, yet its neighbours might not hear a thing.
“Dig in,” Sergeant Roberts snapped. “The enemy is on the march.”
He waved to George. “Get your terminal ready,” he ordered, sharply. “You’ll be calling down fire on the bastards, when they show themselves.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” George said.
She took the terminal out and hastily linked into the command datanet. It was patchy, alerts blinking up to warn her that the enemy jamming was finally taking a toll. She had to check and recheck their location four times before she was sure everything was correct, then sat down in the trench to wait. This time, at least, she could share with the marines. They didn’t seem inclined to insist that she dig her own foxhole.
“Here they come,” Sergeant Roberts said, ten minutes later. “Start calling down strikes.”
George nodded, fingers flying over her terminal as the enemy columns came into view. A set of tanks, backed up by APCs ... it was the sort of advance that no one had seen on Earth for decades, at least in the civilised world. Who would send tanks against a Great Power that could call down strikes from orbit? But ... she hastily sent the orders, despite glitches in the command network. And then the response popped up in front of her ...
Her blood ran cold. She’d fucked up. No, the system had been fucked. But it didn’t matter whose fault it was, not now. She’d called down a strike on her own position!
“Get out,” she screamed, desperately. The KEW was already inbound. It couldn't be stopped, even if she managed to alert her superiors. “Blue-blue! Blue ...”
The marines didn't hesitate. They scrambled for the edge of the trench, clambered out and ran for their lives. George snatched up the terminal as she followed them, hoping they could get out of the blast radius in time. And then ...
Her arms and legs snapped together, rendering it impossible to move. She tripped and fell, landing face-first in the mud. Cursing, she twisted her head to make sure she could breathe, then glanced backwards. The simulated KEW, apparently, had smashed the hilltop into a crater. The entire squad had been wiped out.
“Nice going,” Michelet said, from where he was lying near her.
“Oh, fuck off,” George said.
Chapter Three
London had changed, Susan noted, as she walked down towards Whitehall. Many older buildings had been repaired, since the bombardment and flooding in the war, but others had been rebuilt completely. A cluster of skyscrapers - resembling prefabricated housing rather than anything else - had been built along the Thames, providing living space for the government workers who dominated the centre of London. Others, she knew, had been erected on the outskirts of the city, re-housing the countless millions who’d been rendered homeless by the bombardment. They were soulless places, she’d been told, but they were better than the tent cities and refugee camps that had been so common in the years since the war. Hopefully, the combination of new housing and colonial incentives would be enough to push their residents out of the city.
She sucked in her breath as she entered Trafalgar Square. Nelson's Column had been knocked down during the bombardment, but it had been hastily rebuilt once the pieces had been located and patched back together again. Some people claimed that Nelson looked odd now, as if he was scowling at the nation he’d once defended, but Susan couldn’t see any real difference. The Ark Royal memorial, erected on the other side of the square, was different, drawing her attention like a magnet. A chunk of the ancient supercarrier’s hull, engraved with the names of all who’d gone down with her; a large statue of Admiral Sir Theodore Smith ... she smiled as she saw the flowers, piled high beneath the statue. Britain might have almost forgotten Nelson - and far too many others - before the Troubles, but they would never be forgotten now. Admiral Smith had died to save the entire human race.
And now we’re fighting beside our old enemies, she thought, wryly. I wonder what he would have made of that?
A small crowd of people were standing at one side of the square, exchanging shouts and insults with another - much larger - group. Several dozen policemen were also there, looking grim as the shouting grew louder. Susan listened, trying to make out the words as they blurred together into cacophony. One group was against the war, she decided;
the other group had decided to mount a counter-protest. She turned and hurried onwards as more police vans began to arrive, armed policemen heading into the square. Peaceful protest was part of Britain’s political tradition, one as old as British democracy, but violent protests would be squelched as quickly as possible. That lesson, too, had been learned in the Troubles.
She put the matter out of her mind as she approached the security barrier at the edge of Whitehall, manned by a pair of armed soldiers. There would be others in reserve, she knew, and probably more on their way from the nearby barracks, if the protest really did get out of hand. Whitehall had been bombed twice during the Troubles, then nearly flooded during the First Interstellar War. A degree of paranoia was only to be expected. She made sure to keep her hands in view as she approached the checkpoint, silently relieved she hadn't brought her service pistol. The Household Cavalry would take a very dim view of anyone carrying a weapon into Whitehall, even though she had a legal firearms permit.
The lead guard smiled at her. “I saw you on the news,” he said. “You’re Vanguard, aren’t you?”
“I am her commanding officer,” Susan said. She had to smile at his enthusiasm. “And yourself?”
“Household Cavalry,” the soldier said. “We may be deploying to Nova Scotia or Britannia, but nothing’s confirmed yet.”
“It never is,” Susan said.
She smiled in amusement. Deploying regiments outside the country - and off-world - was official policy, but certain units were harder to move than others. The Household Cavalry was unusual in that it was both a genuine fighting force and a ceremonial guard for Whitehall and Buckingham Palace. She’d be surprised if its soldiers were ever sent off-world. The plans to build a palace on Britannia had been blown out of the water by the war.
The soldier checked her fingerprints and DNA, then made certain she had an appointment at the Ministry of Defence before giving Susan an e-pass and motioning her through the security gates. Susan approved, even though she knew there were plenty of officers, government ministers and bureaucrats who thought the rules didn't apply to them. Britain’s enemies had worked hard to exploit gaps in the country’s security, ruthlessly using blindspots and weakness to slip bombs into position. No one could be allowed through the defences until their identity had been checked and re-checked.
And even though the Troubles are over, she thought, we can't take chances.
Whitehall looked almost exactly as she recalled, she noted as she strode down towards the Ministry of Defence. The damaged buildings had been repaired, even though Parliament and the Civil Service could have worked out of their emergency accommodation for years if necessary. She wasn't sure how she felt about that, really. On one hand, it was important to make it clear that Britain would return to normal; on the other, the resources used to rebuild Whitehall could have been devoted to housing refugees from all over the country. But, in the end, the politicians had looked after themselves first.
She took a moment to pay her respects at the London Cenotaph, silently noting the inscription that stated that it was actually the third cenotaph. The first had been blown up during the Troubles, a symbolic strike against the British Government; the second had been ruined during the bombardment, almost certainly by accident. Nothing she’d heard of the Tadpoles suggested they would have targeted the London Cenotaph deliberately. They certainly wouldn't have understood its importance to humanity. The list of names - of men and women who had died on active service - seemed longer every year. She couldn't keep herself from searching out the names of people who’d died in the Battle of UXS-469, people she’d known during her career. Their bodies had never been recovered.
And probably will never be recovered, she thought, as she turned and strode towards the Ministry of Defence. The families of men and women who died in space rarely had bodies to bury. Unless the Foxes recovered them for dissection.
She reached the MOD and walked up the steps, holding up her e-pass for inspection. The guards checked her DNA again anyway, making sure she was authorised to enter the building. Susan rather suspected there weren't many spacers - or soldiers or even civil servants - who fitted her description, but she approved of the precaution. Getting into a military base was difficult, according to countless exercises, yet once someone was inside it was generally assumed that he had a right to be there. An infiltrator could do a great deal of damage before being caught, if he was inside the wire.
“Thank you,” the guard said, when he’d finished checking. “Please place your terminal in the lockers, then wait in the lobby. You’ll be escorted to the briefing room.”
Susan nodded and walked through the gate into the lobby. It was larger than she’d expected, so luxurious that she half-wondered if she'd walked into an expensive hotel. The chairs were real leather, the wooden tables shining ... a large painting of a scene from the Napoleonic Wars hung over the fireplace, an echo of a bygone era. Men on horseback, charging forward ... even when the artist had painted, Susan suspected, the cavalry had already been on the brink of obsolescence. Charging into the teeth of heavy guns - or machine guns - would have been nothing more than suicide.
She put her terminal into one of the hidden lockers, then turned as she heard someone step into the lobby. A young woman, wearing a commander’s uniform. Susan felt her eyes go wide as she realised the newcomer was a mixed-race child too, almost certainly Caucasian mixed with Asian. Faintly-tinted skin, dark almond eyes, hair a shade too light to be pureblood Chinese or Japanese ... she couldn't help a flicker of envy, mixed with a dollop of fellow-feeling. This girl was exotic - and stunning - enough that she would have had almost no trouble in school.
The young woman came to attention. “Captain Onarina? I’m Commander Outlander, Admiral Fitzwilliam’s aide. If you would like to come with me ...?”
“Of course,” Susan said.
She smiled to herself as she followed the younger woman through a twisting maze of corridors, all lined with expensive paintings. Judging from the name alone, she would have placed Commander Outlander as an asteroid dweller. The RockRats weren't known for caring about anything, but competence. Quite a few Chinese and Japanese engineers had fled to the asteroids when their governments had started clamping down once again. It was odd to see one in the Royal Navy, but perhaps it wasn't too surprising. The First Interstellar War had upset a lot of applecarts.
Commander Outlander stopped in front of a large wooden door, then held it open. Susan walked through the door, shaking her head in disbelief at the sheer opulence of the briefing room. It was definitely very like an expensive hotel, complete with a sizeable drinks cabinet and a uniformed servant waiting to take orders. Admiral Fitzwilliam, the First Space Lord, sat at a giant wooden table that looked old enough to predate the Troubles, flanked by Prince Henry and Admiral Soskice. Three others she didn't know sat beside them, a grim-faced man with dark hair cut close to his scalp, someone who was almost certainly a marine even though he was in civilian clothes and a woman wearing a captain’s uniform and a perpetually vague expression.
“Captain Onarina,” Admiral Fitzwilliam greeted her. “Welcome to the MOD.”
“Thank you, sir,” Susan said.
She took the seat he offered her and rested her hands in her lap. It was hard to escape the sense she was in trouble. If nothing else, she was almost certainly the lowest-ranked officer in the room. She'd expected a larger briefing, probably with a number of other commanding officers at once. Instead ... it looked more like a private discussion. She couldn't help finding that a little ominous.
“I believe you’ve met Prince Henry and Admiral Soskice,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said. He indicated the grim-faced man. “Rear Admiral John Naiser, Brigadier Percy Schneider and Captain Juliet Watson-Stewart.”
Susan sucked in her breath. Rear Admiral John Naiser had commanded HMS Warspite during the Anglo-Indian War, practically winning the most significant naval engagement of the war single-handedly. And then he’d gone on to head the design te
am that had produced Vanguard and her sisters. Brigadier Percy Schneider had commanded Fort Knight on Vesy, then served with distinction during the war; Captain Juliet Watson-Stewart had designed most of Warspite, then gone on to revolutionise gravimetric technology ... they were legends. Her mouth was suddenly dry. The entire Royal Navy looked up to them.
“John’s promotion was only confirmed last month,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said. “His return to fleet command is long overdue.”
“Thank you, sir,” Naiser said. Susan had always been good with accents, but she couldn't place his. She rather suspected that meant a lower-class origin. “It’s a pleasure.”
Prince Henry cleared his throat. “Perhaps we could get a move on,” he said. “Time, tide and outraged family members wait for no man.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said. There was a hint of droll amusement in his voice. “Susan, would you like something to drink? I’m afraid we may be here a while.”
“So feel free to say when you need the facilities,” Prince Henry put in. He winked at Susan, mischievously. “This is going to be a long meeting.”
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