09- We Lead

by Christopher Nuttall

  We’ll be dead on our feet by the time we reach our destination, she thought. Or mad enough to make a blind drop if it will get us some sleep afterwards.

  She rubbed her forehead, feeling a layer of dirt and grime she hadn't been able to remove. A month of heavy exercise, of drill and drill until she was shouting out orders in her sleep, had taken its toll. Maybe she’d earned a little respect, but she didn't know. Part of her was starting to think that giving up was the only way forward. If she went back to Middy Country and kept her head down, or applied for transfer to a remote mining station ... it would be a poor end to her career, but at least she’d have a career. Right now, she wasn't sure what she had.

  A star twinkled at her. She blinked in surprise, genuinely shocked. Stars didn't twinkle in space, not when there was no atmosphere to produce the effect. Perhaps it was a starship, after all. Or perhaps she was too tired and she’d imagined it ... she wondered, absently, what would happen if she just closed her eyes and rested. Perhaps Sergeant Tosco would understand if she crawled off to sleep ...

  He won’t, a voice said, at the back of her head. You can’t sleep on duty.

  But you’re not on duty, another voice said. You can rest ...

  The hatch opened. George looked up, then straightened hastily as the captain strode into the blister. She wasn't quite sure where she stood in the chain of command, now, but the captain was still the absolute mistress of her ship. There was something in the way she walked, a confidence, that George admired. Her skin colour hadn't done her any favours, George was sure, and yet she’d risen to command anyway. George couldn’t help feeling a surge of envy, mixed with an odd resentment. The captain, at least, didn't have demanding relatives.

  “Captain,” she said. She stood on wobbly legs and tried to salute. “I ...”

  “Sit down,” the captain said. She sounded amused, rather than angry. George cringed inwardly, hoping that the captain wouldn't send her to sickbay. It would be an admission of weakness, one she could ill afford. “How are you coping?”

  George hesitated. One rule she’d learned at boarding school - the same school the captain had attended, if she recalled correctly - was not to complain. Grin and bear it might as well be the school’s unofficial motto. But then, she’d also been expected to know the difference between problems that needed adult support and tattling. Getting it wrong could turn someone into a social outcast quicker than a starship could move between Earth and Luna.

  “Well enough, Captain,” she said, finally. “There’s a lot to learn, of course.”

  She tried to smile, but she was afraid it was more of a grimace. It felt as though she’d studied everything under the sun, from basic weapons handling to electronic repair and engineering under pressure. She’d learnt to fly a shuttle at the academy, but the Royal Marine assault shuttles handled differently ... and fly through hostile skies, crammed with antiaircraft weapons ready to blow them into atoms. And then there was ... too many things, too many skills she’d had to learn in a hurry. Her brain sometimes felt as though it was going to explode.

  “Of course there is,” the captain said. “Are you handling it?”

  “I think so, Captain,” George said. “They haven’t kicked me out yet.”

  She sighed, looking down at the deck. Sergeant Tosco had grown sharper over the last couple of weeks, pointing out her errors more and more. She wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. It might have been a sign that he was coming to respect her - or at least decided she wasn’t a complete waste of space - but it also might be a red flag that her time with the marines was coming to an end. And yet ... if they thought she was worthless, they’d kick her out. Wouldn't they?

  “That’s true,” the captain agreed. “Would you prefer to return to Middy Country?”

  George hesitated. If her record could be wiped, if she could start again from scratch ... she shook her head, knowing it was nothing more than wishful thinking. There was no way she’d be allowed to start again, not after her failures. They would hang over her like a shroud until she left the navy or died in service.

  “No, Captain,” she said, wondering if it was the right choice. “I want to see this through to the bitter end.”

  ***

  Susan hadn't expected to meet Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam, not after she’d been transferred to Marine Country. The brief explanation for the midshipwoman’s crash course in all things marine hadn't satisfied Susan, but she had a feeling that asking questions would get her nowhere. Major Andres would reject George Fitzwilliam if she didn't come up to scratch and that would be the end of the matter, even though it would make life difficult for the First Middy. George would have to be slotted back into Middy Country with as little disruption as possible.

  If she was honest with herself, Susan was tempted to order that George did go back to Middy Country. She didn't know George Fitzwilliam that well - they moved in very different circles - but it was clear that her training was taking a toll. The younger woman looked thinner, almost gaunt. Susan could practically smell her from halfway across the small compartment, the stench of sweat and blood she recalled from the gym her father had helped to run, when she’d been a young girl. There was something almost feral about her, merged with a tiredness that made it impossible for her to see how informal she was being.

  And yet, it was clear she was grimly determined to endure.

  Susan studied the young woman for a long moment, wondering if she should raise the issue with Commander Mason or Major Andres. Her father, she suspected, would have advised the girl to quit, pointing out that a woman couldn't meet the minimum requirements for the Royal Marines. Indeed, George hadn’t joined the Royal Marines, not really. A dedicated liaison officer would have started much sooner. There was a point, Susan thought, beyond which struggle was futile. If George couldn't meet the requirements no matter how hard she tried ...

  But it wasn't something she wanted to say, not really. The will to continue was important, the will to overcome each challenge ...

  No amount of will can make it possible for a man to knock down an iron wall, she thought, grimly. But the will to keep going, whatever life throws at you.

  It was an odd thought. She’d overcome challenges, but she’d never taken on anything quite like this. George Fitzwilliam had been pampered, to all intents and purposes. She’d been the sort of girl Susan had hated, at school. The kind of person who thought that having aristocratic - and very well-connected parents - made them better than everyone else. And yet, she did have a stubborn determination to continue, whatever happened. Most of those girls had folded whenever they’d faced a challenge mummy and daddy couldn't save them from.

  “Very well,” she said, finally. “You may continue as long as you want to continue.”

  George gave her a tired smile. “And as long as Sergeant Tosco doesn't kick my ass out of the bunk and give it to someone else.”

  Susan hid a smile. George would be horrified when she realised just what she’d said to her captain, if she remembered it. Susan had known captains who would scream for the lash, if offered such disrespect. Hell, she recalled a particularly unpleasant jerk who’d demoted a lieutenant for grabbing his arm and yanking him out of harm’s way. She couldn't remember what had happened to that captain, but she hoped it had been painful.

  “Rest now,” she said, feeling an odd surge of maternal feeling. What did mothers do, anyway? Her mother had died when she’d been very young. “When do you have to be back?”

  George looked rebellious. “I can't sleep,” she said. “I have to be on stag duty in an hour or so.”

  “I’ll wake you in fifty minutes,” Susan said, amused. “And then you can make your way back to Marine Country.”

  She smiled as the girl closed her eyes. George had definitely learned to sleep whenever she had the chance, probably back in the academy. Susan shook her head in droll amusement, then pulled her terminal from her belt and keyed it on. She had no shortage of paperwork to do, after the last set
of exercises. And she wasn't due on the bridge for another couple of hours.

  Sleep tight, she thought, as George shifted against her. And wake feeling a little better.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Jump completed, Captain,” Reed reported.

  “Picking up a challenge from the guardship,” Parkinson added. “They’re pretty insistent.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Susan said. In theory, it was unlikely that the Foxes could have sneaked around to approach the Unity System from human-controlled space, but it couldn't be ruled out completely. “Send our IFF, then forward Admiral Naiser’s datapacket to Admiral Stirling and General Kershaw.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Parkinson said.

  She leaned back in her command chair as the tactical display began to fill with green icons, a handful patrolling the system while the remainder orbited Unity. The star system itself was still largely empty, save for a handful of asteroid miners probing the rocks for raw materials, but there were a dozen new stations orbiting the planet. Admiral Stirling was in position, theoretically, to block an enemy offensive into human space or provide support for the Tadpoles when - if - the enemy launched their attack on Tadpole Prime. Susan had her doubts about how well the plans would work out in practice, but she understood the political realities behind them. The gateway to human space could not be left open.

  Except they could easily sneak past the guards if they tried, she thought, sourly. And they know it as well as we do.

  “Picking up a signal from the guardship, Captain,” Parkinson said. “They’re clearing us to approach the planet.”

  Susan nodded, relieved. “Inform the flag,” she ordered. Admiral Naiser had been cagey about just how many of his ships would go to Unity. The crew needed shore leave after six weeks in transit, but Unity hadn't been a good shore leave destination even before the Foxes had invaded the planet. “And then lay in a course to Unity.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Reed said. “Course laid in.”

  “Message from the flag,” Parkinson added. “The fleet is to remain in formation.”

  “Good,” Susan said. “Take us out on command.”

  She allowed herself a moment of anticipation. There were enough ships orbiting Unity for a real war game, an exercise that would be far more informative than any number of computer simulations. And the marines would have their chance to practice an opposed landing. The only real danger would be being caught on the hop by an alien offensive, but all intelligence reports insisted that the aliens were focusing their attention on Tadpole Prime. Unity simply wasn't anything like as important.

  And never will be, she thought, as she felt her ship picking up speed. Even without the war, investment in this system was minimal.

  “Captain,” Reed said. “We will be entering orbit in three hours, forty minutes.”

  Susan smiled. “Very good,” she said, warmly. She glanced at her console. A proposal for a real war game had already popped up, although the admirals would have to have the final word. “Mr. XO, you have the bridge. I’ll be in my ready room.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Mason said. “I have the bridge.”

  ***

  USS New York was impressive, John Naiser decided, as he followed Commander Emily Sanderson through the maze of corridors from the airlock to the flag deck. The American battleship was larger than Vanguard, yet - he suspected - less capable of taking and absorbing damage. Her armour had been the height of technological advancement, when she’d been dispatched to Unity, but materials science had improved over the last few months. He made a mental note to check her stats and compare them to his designs as he was shown into Admiral Stirling’s cabin. It was larger than his too.

  The Americans always do it bigger, he thought, wryly. But that makes their ships bigger targets.

  Admiral Frederick Stirling was about a decade older than him, according to the file; a balding man who’d commanded a cruiser during the First Interstellar War and then spent four years in the Pentagon before finally returning to space. He looked surprisingly fit for his age, John decided, and his sharp eyes suggested there was nothing wrong with his intelligence. The only black mark against him, in MI6’s file, warned that Stirling was inclined to err on the side of caution. John would have hated that, when he’d been a starfighter pilot and then CO of a light cruiser, but the older man he’d become felt differently. Some risks had to be borne; others, perhaps, weren’t necessary.

  “Admiral,” Stirling said. “Welcome onboard. Please call me Fred.”

  John nodded. “I’m John,” he said. “And thank you for the invitation.”

  He allowed himself a moment of relief as a uniformed steward brought a tray of coffee and snacks. Admiral Stirling was his superior, by the international standards hashed out during the First Interstellar War, even though John commanded an independent formation. It could have been awkward, if Stirling had tried to assert command or even co-opt his ships for the ongoing war. There was no way either of them could appeal to higher authority.

  “I don’t see many people socially these days,” Stirling said, a faint hint of a smile suggesting he wasn't entirely serious. “We did have a visitor from Tadpole Prime, but it was hard to hold any real discussions when we were wearing swimming trunks and bikinis.”

  John had to smile. “I’m sure it was a very productive meeting.”

  “I think there would be complaints if I insisted on all meetings being held in the swimming pool,” Stirling said. “Perhaps if we swam in coffee instead.”

  He poured two mugs, then nodded to the plate of snacks. “Please, take what you like,” he said. “My chef has been busy sourcing ingredients from the planet and turning them into little delights.”

  “Thank you,” John said. He took a small cake and nibbled it doubtfully. There was too much sugar for his tastes. “What is happening on the planet?”

  Stirling frowned. “Much of the population has gone to ground, those who refused to leave when the original task force pulled out,” he said. “The remainder is working closely with us.”

  “Good,” John said. “I’d heard it was a mess.”

  “Oh, it is,” Stirling assured him. “Unity is not very united. But there isn't anything we can do about that without hampering the war effort, so ...”

  He shrugged, expressively. “I read the datapacket,” he said. “Are you serious?”

  John didn't need to ask what he meant. “Yes,” he said. “We can put a task force in the enemy’s rear.”

  “And without following a predictable path,” Stirling mused. He keyed a switch. A holographic starchart appeared in front of them. “Their FTL communications will make life harder for you, won’t it? They’ll know they need to withdraw ships from the front sooner than you might expect.”

  “I’m counting on their withdrawal letting you know it’s time to advance,” John said. He tapped an icon on the display. “What is the situation?”

  “The Foxes are pushing the Tadpoles hard,” Stirling said. “Mainly through raids and skirmishes - my intelligence staff thinks they’re gearing up for a two-prong advance on Tadpole Prime. The Tadpoles would either have to defend their homeworld, thus sacrificing the remainder of their installations, or try to defeat each prong separately. Either way ... it could get bad.”

  John nodded in grim agreement. Human military operations - and the Tadpoles agreed - were based on the KISS principle: Keep It Simple, Stupid. Trying a two-prong operation, launched from two different systems, was asking for trouble, if only because it would be impossible to coordinate the two operations. It was the kind of tactic that wouldn't be found outside a bad simulator program. But a working FTL communications system changed everything. The Foxes could coordinate such an operation, if they wished.

  And they’d have fleets entering the system from two different vectors, he thought, grimly. It wouldn't be easy for the Tadpoles to choose which way to jump.

  “So far, the Foxes haven’t shown any interest in resuming the drive on Unity
,” Stirling added, shortly. “That’s good news for us, in some ways, but it’s also worrying. The Foxes have almost certainly picked out Tadpole Prime as their priority target. I’ve been raiding their positions myself, but they haven’t tried to return the favour.”

  “Perhaps we gave them enough of a drubbing to make them back off,” John said.

  “Perhaps,” Stirling said. “But realistically, John, Unity isn't that important.”

  “True,” John agreed.

  It wasn't really arguable. Unity had a tiny population and almost nothing in the way of off-planet industrial nodes. The only thing that made the system important was its position, yet even that was useless - to the Foxes, at least - if they failed to secure their flank. They really needed to knock the Tadpoles out of the war before turning their attention to Unity. At the very least, he considered, they would need to block any renewed offensive from the Tadpoles, just to keep their lines of communication open.