“You know better than that,” she snapped. “There’s no one here to talk to and you know it!”
Henry winced. Janelle had never been friendless, not until now. She’d been popular on Ark Royal, then the most important woman on Tadpole Prime ... now, she had no one to talk to, save for servants who were unlikely to disagree with her about anything. And the servants might not even be trustworthy! Who knew which of Janelle’s remarks would be spread across the datanet in less time than it took to make a cup of tea? Janelle was isolated and alone and ...
“I wish I had a better solution,” he said, finally. He could take his wife with him, couldn't he? But that would mean leaving his preteen daughters to the tender mercies of the Royal Family. They wouldn't be harmed, but they’d be trapped. “Do you have one?”
Janelle glared at him, but said nothing. Henry felt another stab of guilt, mixed with annoyance. She'd known what she was getting into when she’d married him. Maybe it would have been hard to extract herself from him beforehand, if she’d wanted to, but it should have been possible. He could have pulled strings to get her a posting somewhere far from Earth. The media would have given up on her eventually.
But imagining the life is far different from actually living it, Henry thought. He’d lost count of the number of gold-diggers he’d met at court. And she can’t leave without triggering a tremendous fight.
The door opened. Victoria stepped into the room.
Henry resisted, barely, the urge to sigh. Victoria was wearing muddy jodhpurs and a straw hat that fell down over her eyes. Her shirt was wet - Henry glanced out the window and saw that the skies had opened, cold rain plummeting down to splash off the windowpane. And she smelt of horse. She clearly hadn't bothered to shower before coming to find him.
“Daddy,” she said. She ran forward and gave him a hug. “Are you staying? I want to show you Trigger and Daisy and Flower and ... the Swallow and ...”
“I’ll be staying for a while,” Henry promised. His oldest daughter smiled so brightly that he thought a second sun had blazed to life. “What’s the Swallow?”
“The boat,” Janelle said. She sounded as if she was torn between amusement and disapproval. “They’ve been taking her out on the lake every day.”
“She’s fantastic, dad,” Victoria said. “We went fishing and I caught a dozen fish and I threw them back into the water and James told me I could have had them for dinner and I thought it was cruel because the fish might have been a Tadpole and he ...”
She broke off, gasping for breath.
“Breathe,” Henry said, with some amusement. It wasn't too likely that any fish on the estate were secretly intelligent, but it was a valid concern on Tadpole Prime. Oddly, the Tadpoles themselves didn't seem to care about their children. Only a relative handful ever grew up into adulthood. “Did you have fish for dinner?”
“Fish are sweet,” Victoria said. “We had pork instead. Pigs are ugly.”
Henry had to smile. “I’m sure it was a good dinner,” he said. The food at Haddon Hall would be first-rate, of course. Only the best for the aristocracy. “What else have you been doing?”
“We found a maze, but it was pathetic,” Victoria insisted. “We couldn't get lost, no matter how hard we tried. It was easy to find our way out. And we tried to build a treehouse, but mummy wouldn't let us climb the tree ... can we, dad? Can we?”
“I think you should listen to your mother,” Henry said, firmly. Building a treehouse might be fun for teenagers, but dangerous for preteens. “Or you can ask James if he and the staff would like to build one for you.”
“It wouldn't be the same,” Victoria said. Her face fell. “We had a treehouse back home.”
“You didn't build it,” Henry said, trying to ignore the odd twist in his heart. Home, as far as Victoria was concerned, was Tadpole Prime. “You can try to build one when you’re old enough.”
“I miss my friends,” Victoria said. She looked up, suddenly hopeful. “Can I invite them for my birthday party?”
Henry glanced at Janelle, helplessly. She raised an eyebrow, silently challenging him to think of an answer that wouldn't result in tears. Victoria’s birthday was a month away, when he’d be halfway to enemy space. He wouldn't be there. And even if he was, there was no way Victoria could invite her friends. They were either on Tadpole Prime or scattered around the Human Sphere. Her ninth birthday would be the loneliest she’d ever had.
“I’m afraid they won’t be able to make it,” Henry said, finally. He wanted to tell his daughter a comforting lie, but what could he say? “They’re a very long way away.”
“That’s what Patty said,” Victoria reminded him. “And she made it back in time for Ling’s birthday party!”
“Your friends are much further away,” Henry told her. Patty was the American ambassador’s stepdaughter, if he recalled correctly. He’d been recalled to Earth for consultations, taking his stepdaughter with him on the assumption he might not be allowed to return. But he had returned, just in time for the party. “And they can't come here.”
“I hate this place,” Victoria said. She kicked the seat. “It’s cold and there’s no one to play with!”
“You have your sisters,” Henry reminded her.
“They’re babies,” Victoria protested. “Children!”
Henry wondered, absently, if he’d ever said that about his sister. He couldn't recall ... but then, he’d never had the chance to get used to playing with other children. Victoria knew nothing of the social or political realities, not really. All she knew was that she’d had friends, a year ago. Now, she was trapped in a gilded cage, completely alone save for her younger sisters. The estate was large enough for a dozen children her age, but she could never go beyond the wall.
“I know how you feel,” he said, hugging her. “But we can't go back until the war is over.”
Victoria looked up at him. “And when will the war be over?”
“I don’t know,” Henry said. He didn't know if Victoria even knew what a war was. She certainly didn't know what it meant. “But when it is, we’ll go home.”
And he hoped, desperately, that he’d be able to keep that promise.
Chapter Nine
“There she blows, Captain,” the pilot said.
Susan put down the datapad and leaned forward as HMS Vanguard slowly took on shape and form. The giant battleship had been moved out of the repair yard and was now floating in space, just inside the security perimeter surrounding the shipyard. A blaze of light surrounded Vanguard, allowing her to see the handful of repair modules clustered close to her ship. It was hard to be sure, but - as the spotlights played over Vanguard’s dark hull - it was clear that additional point defence clusters had been added to her defences.
“She’s impressive,” the pilot said. “You must be very proud.”
“I am,” Susan said.
HMS Vanguard looked like a giant dumbbell, although only an idiot would say that where her crew could hear. Four massive turrets at the prow, four more at the rear; her hull bristled with missile tubes, point defence weapons and sensor blisters. Her mighty drives were clearly powered down, but there was still a sense that she could leap forward and smite the enemies of Britain at any moment. A dozen shuttles were docked at various airlocks, suggesting that some of her crew were returning from shore leave; a handful of men were going EVA and inspecting the outer hull. Susan sucked in a breath, despite herself, as the battleship grew larger and larger until she was dominating the scene. Vanguard wasn't the largest starship ever built and put into service, but she was perhaps the most advanced ship for her size.
And the only bigger ships are the giant colonist-carriers, she thought. Even now, with a war on, the colonist-carriers were still carrying hundreds of thousands of settlers away from Earth. Even the bulk freighters don't come close.
The pilot cleared his throat. “We’ve been ordered to dock at Airlock One,” he said. “Is that suitable?”
“It will suffice,”
Susan said, grandly. It wasn't a problem, although she knew that some commanding officers would interpret it as a snub - or a deliberate insult. Commander Paul Mason, her XO, knew how much she disliked pomp and circumstance. “Take us in as quickly as possible.”
She’d seen the reports, in-between reading countless technological and sociological assessments Admiral Fitzwilliam had seen fit to forward to her, but seeing the battleship in person always took her breath away. Her eyes traced out the emplacements, noting the points where the newer weapons had replaced the old. Admiral Soskice had insisted that the latest generation of missiles had more range and destructive power than anything the Royal Navy had deployed before, but they were over a third larger than standard missiles. The entire missile tube structure had had to be pulled out and refitted before the latest missiles could be loaded onto the ship.
And they may still be ineffective against enemy point defence, Susan thought. Lasers and pulse cannons could take out missiles well before bomb-pumped lasers could pose a serious threat. We’d have to fire hundreds just to be sure of scoring a hit.
“Wow,” the pilot breathed.
Susan followed his gaze. Dozens of worker bees - and men in suits - were swarming around Turret Four, adjusting the giant plasma cannons. Susan allowed herself a tight smile as a sheet of solid-state armour - the latest, she’d been assured - was bolted into place, providing protection against anything short of a focused nuclear blast. Vanguard could have wiped the floor with the fleets that had fought the First Interstellar War, she thought. Even Ark Royal, the heavily-armoured supercarrier, wouldn't have posed much of a threat.
Unless we were rammed, she thought. Crashing a supercarrier into a battleship would destroy both ships.
She scowled at the thought. She’d seen the footage of Ark Royal’s last moments, everyone had. There was something obscene about the way two mighty ships had collided, the destruction ripping both ships apart in terrifying slow motion. The explosions had come late, too late. It was hard to escape the sense that one or both ships might have survived, even though she knew it was unlikely. Ramming was almost always fatal.
The shuttle shuddered, slightly, as it docked with Vanguard, the gravity flickering a second later as its onboard field matched the battleship’s. Susan heard a low hiss as the airlock opened, catching a faint whiff of her ship’s familiar scent as air blew into the cabin. She picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulder and headed for the hatch. It wasn't as if she had much to carry. She'd always travelled light.
Father drilled that into me from a very early age, she thought, ruefully. And it came in handy, didn't it?
She smiled at the thought as the inner hatch hissed open. There was no mistaking the heady scent of a warship that had seen combat, even though it was mixed with scents from the repair crews and new components that had been inserted into the hull. She closed her eyes for a long moment, feeling as though she was finally home. The dull thrumming echoing through the hull - the fusion cores, even though the drive was powered down - seemed to be welcoming her.
“Captain,” a voice said. “Welcome back.”
Susan opened her eyes. Commander Paul Mason was standing there, wearing a duty uniform that had clearly seen better days. She made a mental note to ensure he ordered a new one before Admiral Naiser and his staff boarded the battleship. Admiral Naiser would understand the realities, of course - he’d been a serving officer during wartime - but his staff might not be so forgiving. She didn't have time to correct them, even if she had the authority.
“Thank you,” she said. She returned his salute, then shook his hand. “It’s good to be back.”
They fell into step, heading down towards the bridge and Susan’s ready room. “I trust you had a pleasant time on the surface,” Mason said. “Did they take it out of your shore leave?”
“Only a couple of days,” Susan said. “I spent most of the last month at the Admiralty or the MOD.”
“A terrible holiday,” Mason said, wryly. “How was your father?”
“Growing insistent about grandchildren,” Susan admitted. Mason was an old friend. She could talk freely to him. “He seems to think he won’t have anyone to dandle on his knee.”
“It isn't as if you’re that old,” Mason pointed out. “And you do have frozen eggs, don’t you?”
Susan nodded. It was a standard precaution, one the navy offered for free. Men were invited to freeze sperm; women were invited to freeze eggs and embryos. Modern medicine had ensured that women could have children into their late seventies, but spacers faced the very real risk of radiation damage and other threats. If worst came to worst, she could have a child grown in an exowomb. But she wasn't sure if she could handle a child when she turned seventy.
I’m in my early thirties, she told herself, sternly. I have plenty of time to get married or birth a child.
She sighed, inwardly. A couple of generations ago, women who refused to have children - or put having kids behind their career - had faced social ostracism. Britain’s native population had been in decline before the Troubles and, afterwards, motherhood had come to be seen as far more important. But now ... she knew she could have both, if she wanted it. She just wasn't sure she did.
“Fathers,” she said. She changed the subject before it could get any more embarrassing. “Did you manage to take a few days off?”
“Got to visit Sin City for a couple of days,” Mason said. “Had to make some trades, though.”
“Oh,” Susan said. “Do I want to know?”
“It’s growing wilder,” Mason said. “But it still doesn't live up to memories.”
Susan smirked. Sin City - the original Sin City - had been destroyed during the Battle of Earth. She rather doubted the Tadpoles had known what they’d hit, when they’d fired on lunar installations, but it hardly mattered. Nothing could have galvanised every spacer in the system into throwing everything at the invading aliens more than the destruction of Sin City and its semi-illicit pleasures.
And the new one is much more controlled, she reminded herself. And it isn't really a bad thing, is it?
She dismissed the thought as they stepped through the hatch and into her ready room. Mason had practically taken it over, like before. He’d turned the sofa into a bed and covered the desk in paperwork, both physical and electronic. A bottle of wine sat on the desk, two empty glasses placed next to it. And a giant hologram of Vanguard floated over the desk.
“I was lucky enough to pick up a bottle of Luna Picard 2200,” Mason said, picking up the bottle to show her. “It may well be one of the few surviving bottles from that vineyard.”
“I doubt it,” Susan said. The vineyard domes on the moon had been damaged in the war, but not that badly. “It would cost a bomb if it had.”
Mason shrugged, pouring them both a glass. “It cost more than I care to think about,” he said. “Thankfully, the guy who was trying to outbid me fled the auction room before he had to pay.”
“I don’t want to know,” Susan said. She’d never understood Mason’s fascination with auctions. It wasn't as if he had any use for half the things he bought. Hell, getting them back to his home would be a struggle. “How much did it cost you?”
“I thought you didn't want to know,” Mason said. He held out a glass to her. “To our departure.”
“To our departure,” Susan echoed. She took a sip, then frowned. “What sort of scuttlebutt have you heard?”
“Well, we’re suddenly at the top of the list for supplies, we’re stripping out the flag deck for an admiral and you’ve been busy on Earth rather than coming back here to retake command,” Mason said. “It's clear we're going somewhere.”
“Back to the war,” Susan said, shortly. It was true enough. “But the remainder of the details are classified.”
“Naturally,” Mason said. “Speculating is half the fun.”
He grinned. “Crewman Rogers is offering decent odds on a return to Unity,” he added. “The runner-up is a trip to Tadpole Pri
me, followed by a push through to UXS-469 and alien space - if they refuse to come to terms, of course.”
“You’re going to have to have a few words with Crewman Rogers,” Susan said. There was no way that anyone could eradicate gambling onboard ship, but it was far too easy for it to get out of hand. It was a shame there was no real way to rebuke anyone for gambling on the mission’s goals. “Is he observing the limits?”
“I think so,” Mason said. “I’ve made it pretty clear to him that going over the limits will end very badly.”
Susan sighed. Gambling wasn't precisely against regulations, but there was a very real difference between the official and unofficial limitations. A crewman could gamble away his entire salary, even though there were supposed to be strict limits on what could be used as a stake. And no one wanted to go to a superior officer and admit they’d gambled away their entire paycheck for the month. They would be admitting to breaking regulations themselves.
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