Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7)

by Christopher Nuttall

  She looked into the sleeping compartment and frowned. The bed had been changed, probably by one of the stewards, and her holdall had been placed at the foot of the compartment, but the remainder of Commander Bothell’s possessions had been left in place. He looked to have been something of a packrat, judging by the books on the shelves. It was rare for any naval officer to bring physical books onto a starship when they could load thousands, if not millions, of eBooks onto a datapad. She could download the complete works of anyone and read them during long deployments and boring watches.

  “I’ll have to get his possessions boxed up,” she said, tightly. She'd slept in uncomfortable places before - her midshipwoman quarters had been cramped, smelly and thoroughly unpleasant - but she’d never slept in someone else’s room. “I wish I knew what had happened to him.”

  “I’m surprised no one has come to collect them,” Mason said. “Surely, someone must want to go through his possessions to look for clues.”

  Susan nodded, slowly. “I’ll put in a request for an investigative team, then have his possessions put in storage if they’re not interested. I can't see them not wanting to take a look.”

  “Technically, they should have sealed the quarters,” Mason said. “But there’s been a marked lack of interest in inspecting his possessions.”

  He cleared his throat. “When do you want to take up your post?”

  “I’ll assume the position formally tomorrow, when I take my first watch,” Susan said. Seven hours ... she could take a nap, then read her way through the personnel files, just to make sure she knew who she was supposed to be commanding. It would mean hitting the deck running, but she could handle it. “If that suits you ...”

  “Well, I’m sure I can serve as the acting XO for another few hours,” Mason said, mischievously. “But I don’t think I want the job permanently.”

  Susan frowned, inwardly. The Paul Mason she recalled had been ambitious, as ambitious as herself. And he had every right to be irked at her coming in and taking a position he might have thought to be his by right, although it was common for officers who were promoted to XO to be transferred to a whole new ship. But he hadn't tried to put up a fight or even show passive resistance. It worried her more than she cared to admit.

  “I’ll see you on the bridge,” she said. She cast a longing look at the sleeping compartment, then back at him. “It’s been a long day.”

  Mason nodded, then strode out of the compartment. Susan sighed, then sat down in one of the comfortable chairs. It struck her, looking around, that Commander Bothell hadn't entertained in his cabin. The space might be vast, compared to a junior officer’s cabin, but there were no sofas, no tables, nothing that suggested he ever had guests. Her old XO on Cornwall had been fond of playing poker with the other senior officers - his cabin had been comfortable, if shabby - but Commander Bothell’s cabin was his private place.

  She shook her head in amused disbelief. It had only been nine hours since she’d been at the school, telling the teenaged children what they could expect if they joined the navy. And now she was taking up a new post on Vanguard, preparing to depart the system in just under a week. It wasn't what she’d been led to expect.

  Rising to her feet, she padded into the bedroom and checked the compartments under the bed. The steward hadn't removed anything; Susan cursed under her breath as she poked through Commander Bothell’s uniforms, then placed her holdall on the bed and removed fresh clothing for the following day. She’d have to have HMS Vanguard sewn onto her jacket, she reminded herself; the stewards would see to it, if she told them when they took her jacket to be cleaned. Or she could just draw new supplies from the ship’s stores.

  Gritting her teeth, she undressed and stepped into the shower compartment. Thankfully, someone had taken the original towels and replaced them with fresh ones, along with a small selection of navy-issue toiletries. She showered quickly, donned fresh underwear and walked back out into the cabin. Her body wanted sleep, but she knew she had to complete a number of tasks before she closed her eyes. Sitting down at the desk, she tapped the terminal and accessed the starship’s communications network. Sending a sealed message back to the Admiralty wasn't difficult, although it ran the risk of drawing attention. If someone was monitoring her traffic ...

  And maybe you’re just being paranoid, she told herself, firmly. You have no reason to suspect foul play.

  She shook her head. She'd had captains she would follow into the gates of hell itself and captains who had been blustery tyrants, but she’d never known one like Captain Blake. It was hard to believe the Admiralty knew of his failings ... unless Commander Bothell had been meant to keep him under control. No, that made no sense. The Admiralty wouldn't take chances with the commanding officer of a full-sized battleship. If Captain Blake had been deemed unsuitable for the post, he would have been reassigned, no matter what connections he had.

  And that leaves me with a dilemma, she thought. Just what do I do about it?

  “Record the message, then encrypt it for the personal attention of the First Space Lord, to be released if Vanguard is declared missing or lost,” she ordered.

  “Acknowledged,” the terminal said. “Key the switch to record.”

  Susan tapped the console. “Sir, if you are receiving this message ...”

  She ran through a long explanation of everything that had happened since boarding Vanguard, from her meeting with Captain Blake to her inspection of Commander Bothell’s office and concluded with an apology for not sending the message directly to the personnel department. It would have destroyed her career, she knew, even if Captain Blake had been proven unfit for command. She would have been lucky not to be shunted sideways to an asteroid mining station until her enlistment expired.

  And yet, she mused, doesn't that make me a coward?

  She brought up Commander Bothell’s logs and skimmed the last few entries. It didn't take her long to decide that Commander Bothell had been detailing everything - his logs included references to bringing supplies onboard and a brief mention of a fight in the middy cabin - and yet, there were surprisingly few personalised details. Commander Bothell had no thoughts or feelings of his own, judging by his logs; there was nothing to say how he’d reacted to the problems facing the Royal Navy’s first battleship. He’d been nothing more than his captain’s right hand.

  “Odd,” she said, out loud.

  She’d read some XO logs back at the academy and most of them had included observations and cheerfully irreverent comments. The tutor had explained that the XOs sometimes needed to vent, secure in the knowledge that no one would read their logs and take note of the comments they made, sometimes, about their commanding officers. Their personalities had shone through their words. But Commander Bothell had no personality, as far as she could tell. He spent a dozen paragraphs covering the dispute over which starship should have first dibs on a shipment of spare parts, yet no time at all covering his personal feelings. She was honestly starting to wonder what he’d been trying to hide.

  Unless he suspected someone would be reading his logs, she thought. There had been one XO log that had included grumbles about a captain who refused to move on, keeping the XO and everyone below him firmly in place. She doubted his commanding officer would have been particularly amused if he’d read it. Could the captain have been reading over his shoulder?

  It wasn't a pleasant thought. Traditionally, personal logs were inviolate, unless there was an internal security investigation underway, but the captain could unlock any file on the ship, if he chose. Someone who wanted true privacy would need to bring their own laptop onto the ship, which was against at least four different regulations. If Commander Bothell had believed that Captain Blake was reading his logs ...

  Definitely not a pleasant thought, Susan told herself. And I’d better be careful what I write myself.

  She saved the message, knowing it would be transmitted to the archives on Nelson Base, then tapped out another message for Commodore Youn
ghusband. He’d tell her what he wanted done with Commander Bothell’s possessions, if he didn't want to send an investigative team to Vanguard. She had a feeling he’d probably just want them all boxed up and shipped back to Earth, unless something had popped up to suggest it was more than an open-and-shut case of desertion.

  Shaking her head, she rose and strode over to the king’s portrait, pulling it back to reveal the hidden safe. It hadn't been programmed to accept her fingerprints, she discovered; it rejected them the moment she pressed her fingertips against the scanner. She made another mental note to have the safe reprogrammed, then looked at the bookshelves. Commander Bothell, it seemed, had been fond of the science-fantasy books that had been common, before the Troubles. It suggested a whimsical nature that was at odds with his logbook entries. She opened one at random and smiled at the description of life on Mars. Two hundred years of exploration had turned up nothing to suggest that Mars had ever been inhabited, even by single-celled creatures. The only beings living on Mars were human settlers.

  There was no answer from Younghusband, but she hadn't expected one. She checked her message file, just to make sure no one else was trying to contact her, then walked back into the sleeping compartment and set the alarm. Five hours of sleep was less than she needed, but she was used to getting by on very little sleep. She’d have enough time to dress, freshen up and eat something before making her way to the bridge and officially assuming her post as XO. And then ...

  This is a career boost, she told herself. Serving as Vanguard’s XO should be a great step forward, opening up the prospect of commanding a fleet carrier or one of the newer battleships, when they came online. Either one would be regarded as the quickest way to become an admiral, although she knew her connections were too weak to guarantee it. I should make the most of it.

  She scowled at the thought. There was something wrong with the captain, the former first officer had vanished under mysterious circumstances ... she had the nasty feeling she'd been dropped in a cesspit. Perhaps she had been assigned to Vanguard purely so someone without serious connections could take the fall, when the situation - whatever it was - finally exploded. Captain Blake had to have some connections in very high places, while no one would give a damn about her.

  Even paranoids have enemies, she thought, gloomily. Paul might be my only ally on the ship and he’s nothing more than a lieutenant-commander.

  She climbed into bed, turned out the light and closed her eyes. The situation might look better tomorrow, when she assumed her post ... and, even if it didn't, she’d have the advantage of a few hours of sleep. Who knew? Maybe Captain Blake had just been having a very bad day. It couldn't be easy to lose a trusted XO, certainly not to desertion ... hell, it would make Captain Blake look very bad, even if he hadn’t driven Commander Bothell to flee the service. His trust had been betrayed ...

  Sure, she thought, as sleep dragged her down into the darkness. And I’m the Queen of England.

  Chapter Six

  “So,” the first middy - Charles Fraser - said, addressing Nathan. “You two have never served on a starship before?”

  “No,” Nathan said. “Not unless you count Rustbucket ...”

  “That’s no, sir,” the first middy corrected. “And no, no one counts Rustbucket as a real starship.”

  George swallowed. Fraser was huge, intimidatingly huge ... there was an air of barely-restrained violence around him that terrified her, even though she’d met no shortage of extremely dangerous men when they visited her family. His hair was cropped short; his face was battered and ugly, twisted into a perpetual scowl, as if he were smelling something disgusting under his nose. The tutors at the academy had been tough, particularly the unarmed combat instructors, but Fraser chilled her to the bone.

  She followed him down the corridor, trying hard to keep from glancing around as they passed through a series of airlocks. Rustbucket had been fantastic - a decommissioned spacecraft turned into a training zone for cadets - but Vanguard was a true starship, humming with light and power. A dull thrumming echoed through the hull, reminding her that they were on an active starship about to power up its drives and head out into the great unknown. Dozens of crewmen walked past the midshipmen, some pushing trolleys loaded with sealed packing crates. George stared at them in silent fascination, wondering what they were doing. Shipping spare parts to the engineering decks, perhaps, or transporting ration bars to the galley? There was no way to know.

  “This is middy country,” Fraser said, as they stepped through yet another airlock hatch. “No one is supposed to enter, save us. Don’t be surprised, however, when the XO makes an inspection every so often. We got in deep shit when Commander Bothell made an inspection and this new XO may be just as nit-picking.”

  “Yes, sir,” Nathan said.

  “Gym through there,” Fraser said. He jabbed a finger at a green hatch. “Shared with some of the senior crew, but we have priority. You’re meant to spend at least an hour a day in there, working to build up your muscles and generally staying healthy. Emergency stores in there” - he pointed at another hatch - “but don’t take anything unless you desperately need it, as I am required to account for all the supplies. The XO may ask pointed questions.”

  George frowned. Of you or of us?

  Fraser stopped outside a larger hatch. “These are our sleeping quarters,” he said. His gaze crawled over George, sending shivers down her spine. “I trust that neither of you are claustrophobic?”

  “We wouldn't have made it through the academy if we were,” George said, refusing to allow him to intimidate her any further. “We’ve been in some very cramped spaces.”

  “I am the first middy,” Fraser said. He leaned forward, his dark eyes meeting hers. “You will address me as sir.”

  George was tempted to refuse - they were of equal rank, technically - but she knew he had far more experience of shipboard duty. Besides, he was the first middy. She’d be under his supervision - and command - until one of them was promoted to lieutenant and moved to a private cabin.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, reluctantly.

  Fraser eyed her for a long moment, then keyed the hatch switch. It hissed open, revealing a tiny space, barely large enough for ten bunks and ten tiny cabinets. George felt a sinking feeling as she saw a sleeping midshipman in one of the bunks, even though she knew not all of the midshipmen would be on duty at the same time. The compartment was so tiny that Fraser alone seemed to take up most of the space; hell, she had a nasty feeling that the only place to change was in the middle of the cabin, where everyone could see them. There were only a handful of thin curtains covering the bunks!

  “There are two showers and two toilets at the far end,” Fraser said. “As junior midshipmen, it is your duty to clean them every day. I will check your work and woe betide you if it is not perfect.”

  Nathan blinked. “I thought such duties were shared ...”

  “You’re fit for little else at the moment,” Fraser told him, curtly. He opened one of the doors to reveal a shower, barely large enough for a single person. “Wash the decks, empty the bins, check the flushers ... we’ll go through the rest of it later.”

  He turned. “You have the bunks here, nearest the hatch,” he added. “Do not wake anyone else when you get up in the morning; some of us have to work shipboard nights. If you want to read books, play games or listen to music, make sure you wear headphones and keep your mouths shut. No one will be even remotely sympathetic if you get punched in the nose by a person you woke up, believe me.

  “We have our own table in the wardroom, which you’ll see when I give you the basic tour of the ship. Do not eat elsewhere and do not invite anyone to eat at our table without my permission. If you want a snack in the middle of the night or something along the same lines, and you can't be bothered going to the wardroom, there are ration bars in the side compartments. Remember, you have to replace any you take. Again, if you eat or drink in here, don’t wake up the sleeping ugly midshipmen.”
/>
  “Yes, sir,” Nathan said.

  “You each have one locker for your personal clothes and other such shit,” Fraser added, pointing to the lockers. “Those are your private compartments - no one, not even the XO, will look in them without a good reason. If you need more space, tough shit. Any fancy dresses you happened to bring” - he shot George a nasty look - “will have to be spaced.”

  George nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  “Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam, unpack your holdall and then wait in here,” Fraser concluded, shortly. “I’m going to have a little talk with Midshipman Bosworth.”

  “Yes, sir,” George said. Judging from the look on Nathan’s face, he welcomed the idea of a private chat with the first middy about as much as George herself. “I’ll remain here.”