She cleared her throat. “I will be happy to offer what I can,” she said. “But it will have to wait until Vanguard is completely ready for deployment.”
“Understood,” Admiral Naiser said. “Do we have a timeline?”
“Five days, sir,” Susan said. “I’m planning on the assumption that we’ll need some extra time.”
“Good thinking,” Admiral Naiser said.
He finished his glass and put it on the table. “My staff and I will do our best to stay out of the way,” he promised. “We’ll be running through a series of fleet-level exercises to prepare for deployment, then start coordinating with the other ships as they arrive. Prince Henry, his staff and the press - horror of horrors - should be arriving in a week. Unless that changes too ...”
Susan groaned, inwardly. She’d never had to deal with the media, at least not on her ship, but she’d heard countless horror stories from officers who had. Reporters rarely understood the realities of deep space operations, let alone combat. They expected the crew to be able to see everything in real time, as if the speed-of-light delay simply didn’t exist. It didn’t, on Earth, but it was a very real problem in deep space. And when they weren't demanding the impossible, they were demanding good food and spacious cabins.
“My XO will be happy to deal with them,” she said. That was a flat-out lie. If half the horror stories were true, Mason would start plotting a mutiny of his own within the week. “We have already reserved space for both the xenospecialists and the reporters.”
“You can’t stuff them into storage cabinets,” Admiral Naiser said, wryly. “And you can't tell them an airlock is a luxury suite either.”
“No, sir,” Susan agreed. “We’ve isolated a block of cabins for the reporters. They’ll be reasonably comfortable.”
Admiral Naiser grinned. “On a starship?”
Susan smiled back. She’d shared a cramped bunkroom with five other midshipmen, where there had been no privacy at all, then endured a claustrophobic cabin as a lieutenant. There hadn't been any real comfort until she’d made commander and by then she’d grown used to uncomfortable sleeping quarters. Hell, the captain’s cabin had felt uncomfortably large the first night she’d slept in it. But for the reporters, no doubt used to large hotel rooms, the tiny cabins would seem a foretaste of hell.
Unless some of them are experienced embeds, she thought. She’d have to go through the files, if MI5 and the Admiralty had forwarded them to her. An embed would know what to expect.
“This should be an interesting voyage,” Admiral Naiser said. He rose. “And I won’t keep you any longer.”
“My officers and I would be honoured if you joined us in the mess this evening,” Susan told him. It was sincere. Admiral Naiser was a genuine war hero. “And I believe my engineer wishes to show you around the ship too.”
“I’ve been looking forward to seeing the changes in person,” Admiral Naiser said. He cocked an eyebrow. “And I’ll discuss them with you in some depth later.”
Susan rose, then watched as he headed for the hatch and stepped through. She almost offered to walk him down to his cabin, but stopped herself just in time. Admiral Naiser had helped to design and build Vanguard. He’d have no problem finding his way to the flag deck, let alone his cabin. She glanced at the status board, just to confirm that the last of the admiral’s staff had boarded, then turned her attention back to the files. A number of omissions were clearly visible - the task force hadn't been entirely finalised - but Vikramaditya and her crew were included in the briefing notes. MI6, she noted, had added a great deal of detail that hadn't been included in the files the Indians had offered.
“Captain Rani Saran,” she read, out loud. That was impressive. India had been a great deal more reluctant to allow women to join the navy than Britain, even after the Age of Unrest had finally come to an end. A woman who not only joined their navy, but reached command would be formidable. “Political connections ...”
She made a face as she skimmed through the file. MI6 insisted that Captain Saran had only been promoted because she was related to three separate government officials, while the Admiralty thought her political connections were largely irrelevant. It was hard to be sure which of them was right, Susan thought. Hell, it was quite possible that both of them were right. India didn't have an entrenched aristocracy. Captain Saran’s family connections might have helped her into the navy, but she wouldn't have been given a carrier without being extremely competent.
But Captain Blake got his command, even though he'd lost his bottle, she thought, sourly. If his connections were enough to get him a command, why not hers?
She read the rest of the file quickly. Captain Saran had studied in India, then Oxford. That wasn't really a surprise, although the number of Indian students attending British universities had dropped sharply since the war. Joined the Indian Navy at nineteen, three years before the First Interstellar War; commissioned into the service just in time to take part in the Battle of Earth. And then she’d served during the Anglo-Indian War on Vikramaditya ...
No known political positions, Susan thought. The Indian Navy encouraged its officers to write about political defence issues, something it had copied from the Royal Navy, but Captain Saran had apparently published nothing about politics. But certainly one of the loudest voices for an independent Indian defence policy.
It was difficult to be sure. Captain Saran’s career might have suffered because of the war, even though she’d been a mere lieutenant. It had taken her six years to earn a carrier command. But then, India only had one supercarrier. Susan knew, in the normal run of things, that she probably wouldn't have had a shot at Vanguard’s command chair. Too many officers wanting their chance, too few command slots ... Captain Saran was probably both competent and well-connected. The Indian Navy wouldn't have given her the carrier if they thought she couldn't handle it.
And she’s probably tough too, Susan acknowledged.
It wasn't a pleasant thought. She’d read several books by the first women to serve in the Royal Navy, after the restrictions on female crewmen had been lifted. They hadn't had an easy time of it. Crews - male crews - had doubted them until they proved themselves. It would be harder, she suspected, in the Indian Navy. India had always been far more patriarchal than Britain.
She shrugged. Politics - human politics - didn't matter. All that mattered was winning the war before it was too late. And if Captain Saran didn't understand that, Admiral Naiser would have to appeal to her government before the task force left orbit. The task force couldn't afford to fight the aliens and itself.
“Commander Mason,” she said, tapping her wristcom. “Report to my ready room when free.”
“Understood,” Mason said. He sounded relieved, although he hid it well. The admiral’s staff would be keeping him hopping. “I’ll be along as soon as possible.”
“Good,” Susan said. “We have plenty of work to do.”
Chapter Twelve
“Wake up,” a voice hissed. George started as someone prodded her arm. “We’re almost there.”
“Thanks,” George muttered. She’d fallen asleep almost as soon as she’d transferred to the Vanguard shuttle. “Do we have some water?”
She opened her eyes, cursing as the light stabbed daggers into her skull. She’d gone back to the hotel, after her interview with her uncle, and proceeded to get thoroughly drunk, something that had clearly been a mistake. The sober-up she’d taken should have swept most of the alcohol out of her system, but the headache was still pounding away at the corner of her mind. She needed food, water and sleep, probably not in that order. But she knew she wasn't going to get any of them.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself, she told herself, as her companion pressed a water bottle into her hand. You have a fucking job to do.
The water tasted clean, too clean. George felt sick again, just for a second. The first leg of the journey hadn't been too bad, but the person who’d sat next to her on the second had spent most
of the flight hitting on her ... something she might not have minded, perhaps, if her head hadn't felt as though it was going to explode. And then she’d slept, but not enough. She thought she’d dreamt, during the flight, but she couldn't recall her dreams. Perhaps, just perhaps, that had been for the best.
You’re a spacer, she reminded herself sharply, as a gut-wrenching quiver ran through the shuttle. You have endured worse.
She swallowed, hard. She’d spent part of the day composing a letter to Barton, only to give up when she’d finally realised that there was no good way to tell her lover - her former lover, perhaps - that the place he thought he’d earned had actually been given to him. How could she tell him? It would break his heart - or worse, if he blamed her for it. She’d deleted the final draft, in the end, then kept drinking until ... the rest of the night was a blur. Part of her was surprised to discover that she’d woken up alone, before making her way to the spaceport.
A dull clang echoed through the shuttle as it docked with the giant battleship. She cringed into her seat as the pilot announced HMS Vanguard, running through a spiel that would have done a commercial aerospace company proud. It had been funny the first time, she recalled, but after two deployments and countless shuttle flights it had definitely stopped making her laugh. As if they needed their passports or the countless other civilian requirements for crossing an international border!
She gritted her teeth, then rose to her feet and retrieved her carryall before joining the small crowd of spacers and marines boarding Vanguard. No matter how carefully schedules were organised, she’d discovered on her first deployment, something always went wrong and spacers needed to be rushed around from place to place. The marines should have accompanied the rest of their unit, but they’d probably been on leave when the balloon went up. Thankfully, they hadn't missed departure altogether. George hated to think what would happen to someone who managed to do that.
Vanguard smelt old and new at the same time, she decided, as she stepped through the hatch and into the giant battleship. The drives sounded a little different - she couldn't determine if they were powered down or if someone had been adjusting the harmonics - but she knew it wouldn't take her long to get used to it. Spacers rarely noticed the hum after the first few days, prompting all sorts of questions from groundhogs. They sometimes even had to be reminded that the background noise was there.
“George,” a familiar voice said. “Welcome home!”
George turned. Lieutenant Charles Fraser stood there, arms crossed in front of him, looking - as always - like a gorilla who’d been shaved and forced into a naval uniform. George surprised herself by smiling at him, even though he’d been an enemy before he’d become a friend. She hadn't realised how much she’d come to trust him until she’d faced the prospect of never returning to the ship.
“Charles,” she said. She flushed a moment later. Maybe they were friends, but she still shouldn't address him by his first name where anyone could hear. “Lieutenant.”
“You can be flogged for not giving me the proper respect,” Fraser said, deadpan. He motioned for her to follow him down the corridor, allowing the rest of the shuttle passengers to depart in a steady stream. “I trust you brought some chocolate from Earth?”
George flushed. “I completely forgot,” she admitted. She cursed herself, savagely. She’d planned to bring chocolate, but events had overtaken her. “Sorry.”
“I’m sure we’ll live,” Fraser said. He met her eyes. “I have good news and bad news.”
“Oh,” George said. She wasn't sure she wanted to know. “What’s the bad news?”
“It may actually be good news,” Fraser said. “It depends on what you want to hear.”
George sighed. “You’ve been demoted back to midshipman? I’ve been promoted to lieutenant? The captain has decreed that everyone whose name starts with ‘G’ gets an extra ration of ice cream at supper?”
Fraser beamed. “You’re going to be bunking down with the marines!”
“What?”
“You’re going to be sleeping with the marines,” Fraser told her. He paused, dramatically. “I suppose that did come out wrong.”
George bit down the response that came to mind. Friends or not, private or not, there were limits. “Why?”
Fraser shrugged. “Well,” he said. “There’s the small matter of you being their newly-appointed liaison officer. You can't do that if you’re stuck on the other side of the ship, can you? And then there’s the slightly more important factor of a new First Middy. Certain people thought it might be better if you weren't sleeping in Middy Country.”
George felt herself flush. “I thought Simon or Paula would have got the job.”
“Simon Potter and Paula Spurgeon both requested reassignment,” Fraser told her. “I believe they both left shortly after you did. And with the other two idiots currently cooling their heels in jail, someone higher up the chain of command decided it would be better to bring in a completely new set of midshipmen.”
“And that means you’re still supervising them,” George finished. “Sorry.”
“Not as much as you might think,” Fraser said. “Zak Smith - he’s senior by over a year - is off Queen Liz. He knows most of the battleship ropes already. I’ve supervised, of course, but he hasn’t made many missteps.”
“I hate him already,” George said. She wasn't entirely joking. A few more years of experience - of life - and she was sure she would have done a better job. “And I don’t get to stay in Middy Country?”
“Like I said, you’ll be bunking with the marines,” Fraser said. He paused. “I’m not sure how the rest of your duties are going to pan out, really. You may find yourself serving as a gofer - or you may get the regular run of middy duties as well as everything else. Wait and see.”
George rubbed her forehead as they resumed their walk down the corridor. She was screwed, unless ... no, she was screwed. Her work for the marines would be noted, but it wouldn't count towards a prospective promotion; hell, the other middies would have an excellent chance to jump up the promotions ladder ahead of her ...
And you screwed up, she reminded herself, sharply. Even if you were an ordinary middy, promotion would come slowly, if at all.
She glanced at him. “Did you manage to get some shore leave?”
“A little,” Fraser said. “Not much, really. A brief flight to the moon and nothing else.”
Sin City, George filled in.
Fraser caught her arm as they approached Marine Country. “I understand that you were training with them,” he said. He looked her up and down, scrutinising her with an intensity that made her blush. “Just remember ... they don't have time for deadweight here.”
“I understand,” George said. “Are we still going to be training together?”
“If you have time,” Fraser said. “And if I have time too. I may be assigned to tactical in the next few days.”
“Good luck,” George said.
“Thank you,” Fraser said. He smiled, rather thinly. “Report to Major Andreas. You may remember him.”
The two marines on duty outside the hatch checked her ID carefully before opening the hatch, allowing her entry. Fraser nodded to her, then strode off in the other direction. George blinked - she’d expected him to accompany her - and walked into Marine Country. The air smelt different, the musty smell of too many sweaty men in too close proximity drifting down the corridor towards her. Marine Country was large, but their barrack-cabins were surprisingly small. George suspected she’d find some of them claustrophobic despite her experience on Vanguard.
She walked down to the CO’s office and tapped the bleeper, then waited. The sound of exercise echoed down the corridor, men testing their skills in the fighting ring. She could hear sergeants alternately pushing the men to fight harder and reminding them, sternly, that some moves were banned for a reason. George had learned a great deal over the last eighteen months - from Fraser and the marines - but she knew better than to think
she could take a marine in a fair fight. She’d have her ass kicked all around the ring.
And if I did win it would be suspicious, she thought. I’d always wonder if they let me win.
The hatch hissed open. Major Christopher Andreas was standing behind his desk, studying a holographic map covered in notations from at least three different countries. George stepped inside and saluted smartly, then waited for him to acknowledge her. Major Andreas would be a very busy man. She was surprised he was talking to her personally.
He looked up. “Midshipwoman.”
“Major,” George said. She wasn't sure what to expect. “Reporting as ordered, sir.”
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