09- We Lead

by Christopher Nuttall

  And then they find themselves deeper and deeper in debt, she thought, grimly. And if they’re unlucky, they find themselves having to pay with something other than money.

  “Good,” she said, coldly. She was damned if she was allowing that sort of nightmare on her ship. “Don’t let him do anything stupid.”

  She leaned back in her chair and took another sip of the wine. Hanover Towers had made an effort to teach her about wine - apparently under the mistaken belief she was going to be a society wife who needed to be able to babble about grapes - but she’d never had the money to develop expensive tastes. Mason hadn't made a bad choice, she decided as the heavy liquid slid down her throat, yet it wasn't something she wanted to drink regularly. Which was lucky, she supposed. Her salary was very good, but she wasn’t going to blow it all on expensive wine.

  “And now,” she said. “What have they done to my ship?”

  Mason took a moment to gather his thoughts. “The damage we sustained in the last series of engagements has been repaired - again,” he said. “I think the dockyard workers are getting pretty used to us, as this is the second time we’ve limped home. Much of the armour has been replaced with the latest composite, after we tested it extensively. We’re now tougher than we were during our last deployment.”

  “Good,” Susan said. “Can we stand up to a focused nuke?”

  “The damage will be contained,” Mason said. “They’ve also extensively modified the fusion cores and power distribution systems, based on our experience in the last year. Our drives are now better protected than they were, while the fusion cores are easier to fix while underway. The downside of all this” - he held up a hand - “is that efficiency isn't so high. I’ll send the full report to your terminal.”

  Susan winced. Repairing the fusion cores was damn near impossible, at least away from a shipyard. If they could be modified to allow for onboard repairs ... it was worth it, she supposed. She’d have to check the equations and projected power curves to be sure. The cores might need to be run constantly, putting more wear and tear on the system. But then, she reminded herself, anything that made it easier to repair the ship was worthwhile. A disaster that took out most of the fusion cores would probably take out the entire ship.

  Or strand us, she added, thoughtfully. And that would be the end.

  “I’ll read the reports carefully,” she said. “Weapons?”

  “The new missiles, if the simulations are to be believed, may be better than we had expected,” Mason said. “I’ve gone through the unclassified files very carefully - if they’re right, the enemy may have some difficulty getting an effective lock on their precise location and taking them out. On the other hand, it wouldn't be the first time something functioned perfectly in the lab and failed completely in the field.”

  Susan groaned. “And we won’t know until we fire them at the enemy.”

  She shook her head, tiredly. The boffins never bothered to account for reality when they did their trials. There was always something missing, something that always took a toll in the real world. She’d heard enough horror stories to be very wary of anything the boffins said until she’d seen it tested in the field.

  “No,” Mason agreed. “And the enemy may be putting their own versions into production too.”

  “True,” Susan agreed.

  “Our plasma cannons have been enhanced, again,” Mason added. “They now pack an even bigger punch, with a longer range. We should be able to give the enemy a nasty fright, if they follow their standard tactics. They’ll be in range before they know it. And our point defence is much more effective.”

  “But they can still sweep most of the guns off our hull,” Susan said.

  “I’m afraid so,” Mason said. “We don’t have a force shield just yet.”

  Susan nodded, ruefully. Another Holy Grail ... and one that was supposed to be theoretically possible. But so far none of the boffins had managed to make one that was even remotely reliable. The shields simply couldn't stand up to anything.

  And they can cripple most of our point defence once we enter weapons range, she reminded herself. It had happened before, despite their best efforts. And there’s nothing we can do about it.

  “We have stockpiled additional weapon pods,” Mason told her. “But we can't refit them while under fire.”

  “Of course not,” Susan agreed. She took another sip of her wine. “Is there anything else I ought to know?”

  “Most of the newcomers seem to have fitted into the crew,” Mason said. “Crewman Patrick Young has apparently deserted, as he is now five days overdue after going on leave to Sin City. I’ve notified the Shore Patrol and the Luna Police, as there is a possibility he might have simply lost track of time.”

  “He can try explaining that to the Senior Chief,” Susan said, dryly.

  It wasn't as absurd as it sounded. A person who plugged himself into a bliss machine - direct electronic simulation of his pleasure centres - could easily lose track of time. Men had been known to waste away in the machines, too lost in their own pleasure to realise that they were slowly starving to death. But a careful operator would ensure that his customers were hooked up to IV tubes, as long as their money lasted.

  And if he is lost in bliss, Susan thought, he may be unable to return to duty in any case.

  “Naturally,” Mason agreed. He sighed. “If he doesn't report back within a couple of days, he’ll be in deep shit anyway. The roster will have to be rewritten to exclude him.”

  “Handle it as you see fit,” Susan told him. “And if he did decide to leave us, make sure he gets handed over for trial.”

  “Of course,” Mason said. “Apart from that, there have been no major issues and only a couple of minor ones. All of them have been handled.”

  “Good,” Susan said. She finished her wine, then placed the glass on the table. “Do you want to show me the changes before I resume command?”

  “It will be my pleasure,” Mason said. He gave her a droll smile. “Commanding here doesn't go on my record.”

  “Be glad of it,” Susan said. Earth was a long way from the war front, but there was nothing stopping the Foxes from trying to strike at humanity’s homeworld. Vanguard might have to power up and go on the offensive in a hurry. “If it did, we’d be in trouble.”

  Chapter Ten

  George felt sore - but in a good way - as the alarm bleeped, waking her up. For a long moment, she was confused before remembering that she’d set the alarm before climbing into bed. Their lovemaking had been particularly intense before they’d fallen asleep, she remembered, as she hit the terminal with one hand. They wouldn't be able to meet again for months, if not years.

  Barton’s head emerged from under the blankets. “What time is it?”

  “1000,” George lied. “Your shuttle leaves in twenty minutes.”

  Barton jumped up, rolling out of bed. “Where’s my ...?”

  He broke off. “You lied!”

  “Of course,” George said. They wouldn't have been able to get to Heathrow in twenty minutes, even if they’d taken a jet. “It’s 0800 and you need to have a shower and get dressed.”

  “Oh,” Barton said. He rubbed his forehead as he stood. “Put your butt over here so I can slap it.”

  “Maybe later,” George teased. She climbed out of bed and headed for the shower. “We both need to wash.”

  She wished, as she ran hot water over her body, that they had time for one final bout of lovemaking. But they didn't. Really, they were pushing things too close to the edge. He joined her a moment later, faint marks clearly visible on his back where her nails had dug into his skin. She kissed him lightly, then hurried back into the bedroom to order breakfast before getting dressed. They’d left the room so messy, she realised as she picked out her clothes, that the maids were not going to have fun cleaning it. She made a mental note to leave a huge tip before they headed to the spaceport. She’d be coming back, but the maids would be cleaning the room before she returned.
/>
  “I’ve ordered a taxi too,” she said, as he walked into the bedroom and reached for his underpants. “We’ll be leaving in thirty minutes.”

  Barton nodded. “You don’t have to come with me, not if you don’t want to.”

  “I might as well,” George said. “What would I do in London without you?”

  The maid knocked before Barton could come up with a reply. George smirked, then opened the door. The maid carried in a large tray of breakfast, placed it on the table and retreated silently. George was starting to think they could give the marines lessons in sneaking about without making a sound. Barton shook his head after her - if anything, her dress was shorter than ever - and then stared down at the food. George knew exactly how he felt.

  “Eat as much as you can,” she said. God knew she’d had problems eating on the day she’d first walked into the academy. He ought to understand the importance of eating better than the sixteen-year-old brat she’d been. “You’ll need it.”

  Barton nodded and picked up a pastry. “Has it really been three days?”

  “Yeah,” George said. It had been strange; strange and delightful. Three days in the same room, with the same man ... no wonder they’d lost track of time. “I’m afraid it has.”

  She munched her own breakfast, enjoying the mixture of tastes. It wouldn't be long before she was back on Vanguard, eating shipboard food. The cooks weren't bad, but naval food tended to be somewhat limited. And the less said about marine rations the better.

  “It’s been wonderful,” Barton said. “Thank you.”

  “Consider it a gift,” George told him. “I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you.”

  “Maybe,” Barton said. “But thank you anyway.”

  George sucked in a breath as she sipped her coffee. “You’ll be on the moon, studying,” she said. “And I’ll be somewhere a million light years away.”

  “More like a few hundred,” Barton pointed out. He smiled. “It doesn't really matter that much, does it?”

  “No,” George agreed. A hundred light years or a million ... they were still going to be parted for a very long time. “I hope you won’t be visiting Sin City that often.”

  “I’m meant to be studying,” Barton said. “To learn how to act like an officer and a gentleman and a prat.”

  “Walk around with your nose high in the air,” George said. “I don’t think they’ll have that much to teach you. You’ll probably be commissioned by the end of the year.”

  “I doubt it,” Barton said. “The commissioning rate for mustangs is only seventy percent, I think. The remainder get to become chiefs instead. I can't afford to take time off to enjoy myself.”

  “I thought the same too,” George said. “This probably explains why I was at the bottom of my class.”

  Barton smirked. “I thought you did well enough to get Vanguard,” he said. “She’s hardly a garbage scow.”

  George shrugged. She hadn't done badly, she knew, but she hadn't been at the top of the class either. HMS Vanguard, she assumed, had been the luck of the draw. Or someone covertly pulling strings on her behalf. She knew from experience that both were quite possible.

  “That’s not the point,” she said. She hesitated, unsure what to say. “I don’t know what will happen in a year or two years or however long it takes you to get commissioned. And for me to return to the system. We’ve never been apart for so long, even if we didn't have any actual privacy.”

  She paused, struggling for words. “If you find someone else,” she said. “Just ... just tell me, ok? I won’t blame you. I ...”

  Barton looked at her for a long moment. “Likewise,” he said, finally. “And I won’t blame you either.”

  George sighed. They’d never talked about the future. Hell, with a war on, there was a very good chance they might not have a future. Hundreds of thousands had already died, hundreds of thousands more would die ... there was a possibility, a strong possibility, that the list of destroyed ships might eventually include HMS Vanguard. And if that happened, she suspected she would go down with the ship. A long-term relationship, perhaps even marriage ... it wouldn't be on the cards until after the war, if they lasted that long.

  But it hurt to tell him he could go, if he wanted. And she hoped he felt the same way too.

  They finished their breakfast in silence. Something had gone out of them, George knew, even though she’d had to raise the issue. Perhaps, if they had the opportunity to make love one final time ... she shook her head, knowing it would be different. She had no choice, but to wait and see what happened when she returned to Sol.

  Her terminal bleeped. She glanced at it, surprised.

  “My uncle wants me to meet him,” she said, astonished. “Why?”

  She’d met with her uncle two months ago, right before she’d been sent to the marines, but ... it was rare for him to summon her directly. How had he even known she was in London? She cursed her slow brain a moment later. She’d been using her trust fund in London and her parents would have been notified. One of them had probably passed the message on to her uncle.

  “Maybe he just wants to see you,” Barton said. “You’re his favourite niece, aren't you?”

  “He has three children,” George said, absently. She had butterflies in her stomach. If her uncle was willing to summon her, it had to be important. “He doesn’t see any reason to favour me.”

  She sighed, crossly. “And I can't go with you to Heathrow,” she added, passing him the terminal. “He wants to meet me at 0930.”

  “A lucky escape,” Barton said, dryly. “You do realise you would have been driving back alone?”

  George nodded. Perhaps, with the new tension between them, it was a good thing, even though it was an annoying coincidence. Or was it really a coincidence? Her uncle could easily have contrived to keep her from accompanying her lover to the spaceport, if he’d wished. But it struck her as rather pointless.

  “I know,” she said.

  She kissed him goodbye once he’d packed, then scooped up her own bag and walked down to the ground floor. London was slowly coming to life, crowds wandering around as though they had somewhere to go. She frowned at the heavy police presence as she hurried through the streets to the Admiralty. There seemed to be more police on the streets than she’d ever seen, even during New Year celebrations. The guards greeted her when she reached the Admiralty, but insisted on checking her ID and fingerprints before allowing her to proceed through the gates. She knew she shouldn't be annoyed - it was their job - yet she couldn't help finding it annoying. There were only two days of leave left before she returned to her ship.

  “Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam,” a calm voice said. Her uncle’s aide was standing by the door. “Your uncle is waiting for you.”

  George directed a death glare at the woman’s back as she led the way up the stairs. There was no way to hide her connection to her uncle - Fitzwilliam wasn't that common a surname, certainly not in the Royal Navy - but she would prefer that it wasn't bandied about so casually by a woman who didn't seem to be anything other than beautiful. She knew she was being unfair, yet it was hard to be reasonable when her plans had been spoilt and the entire world had been reminded - again - that her uncle held the power of life and death over every spacer in the navy. And she wished, as she was shown into a large office, that she didn't feel as though she was being marched to the headmistress for a lecture.

  “George,” her uncle said. He was standing against the window, peering down at London below. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Your invitation suggested it was urgent,” George said. She knew she should be politer, too, but she was annoyed. “And that I didn't have a choice.”

  The door closed behind her, loudly. She tried to ignore it.

  “Your young man is on his way to the moon,” her uncle said. He didn't look away from the window. “I’m sure he’ll do well there.”

  George’s eyes narrowed. “Did you get him the post?”

  “I may have ha
d a word or two with the examiner,” her uncle said, casually. There was a faint edge to his voice that only someone who knew him very well would hear. “But I assure you he met the minimum requirements for the academy.”

  “You gave him the place to separate us,” George snarled. Barton had been proud of his achievement. Her uncle ... she clenched her fists in rage. How dare he? “You ...”

  Her uncle turned to face her. “You are not a twelve-year-old girl any longer,” he said, sharply. “You are a twenty-one-year-old midshipwoman in the Royal Navy. Sit down, shut up and let me finish.”

  George sat, stunned.

  “First, your boyfriend did meet the requirements,” her uncle said. “I can prove that to you if you wish. I freely admit that I did put his name forward, but I would not have done that unless there was a reasonable chance of him completing the course.”