Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7)

by Christopher Nuttall

  It was true enough, she admitted privately, but she had other concerns. The first middy was competent enough, she supposed, yet it was clear he was brooding over his lack of promotion. Indeed, there was no written reason why he hadn't been promoted, but after meeting him Susan suspected his superiors had noted that he had a chip on his shoulder and chosen to leave him as a midshipman. And yet, the longer he stayed as a midshipman, the lower the chances of actually getting promoted. It was a situation that was just tailor-made for resentment.

  There, but for the grace of God go I, she thought. She’d feared she too would be stuck on the very lowest rung, able to climb to the top if she could only reach the second rung. I’d better keep an eye on him.

  “I will need a new steward,” Captain Blake said. “If I were to offer one of them the post ...”

  He allowed his voice to trail off, suggestively. “It would be bad for their careers, sir,” Susan said, keeping her voice level. She was starting to have an idea why Commander Bothell had deserted. Even if the captain thought he was doing some poor midshipman a favour, it would turn into a disaster. “They need to hit the deck running, not waste their time serving as stewards.”

  “I suppose,” the captain said. “I expect you to keep me informed of their progress.”

  “I’ll have a full report for you just prior to departure,” Susan assured him. “And I won’t hesitate to send one of them back to the academy if they fail to come up to snuff.”

  She wondered, absently, if he’d even bother to read the reports. The earlier documents she’d sent for his signature had come back, signed and dated, within minutes. If she’d wanted to organise a criminal ring, dedicated to stealing naval components and selling them on the black market, it would have been easy. And if the captain had signed the paperwork, he’d take the fall when the audit finally caught up with them.

  “I insist on being consulted first, before anyone is sent back,” the captain said. “See to it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Susan said, irked. As XO, the responsibility was hers. The captain seemed inclined to second-guess her on matters that were her responsibility, while allowing her free rein on matters that were technically his. “I’ll make sure you are aware of any issues prior to sending them back to the academy.”

  Which would be the end of their careers, she thought, tiredly. Poor kids.

  She took a bite of her pudding and discovered, not entirely to her surprise, that it was very good. The captain, it seemed, had ensured that Vanguard had a very good chef, a civilian given a temporary naval commission, rather than someone who’d been through the navy’s cooking course. Although, she remembered, there was the old joke about the course being so hard that no one actually passed ...

  “You hired a good cook,” she said, changing the subject herself. “Where did you get him?”

  “Poached her off Lord Hunter,” Captain Blake said. He sounded pleased, even though it had probably been no more challenging than offering the cook more money. “She is skilled, isn't she?”

  And she shouldn't be here at all, Susan thought. Is she even qualified to serve on a starship?

  She made a mental note to check it out later, then pushed the thought aside. Given all the other problems she had to solve, it was very much a minor issue right now. A cook couldn't cause anything like as much trouble as a poorly-trained midshipman or an older officer who had been nursing a grudge for the past five years ...

  “Ask her for the remainder of the pudding,” the captain said. “She always makes more than strictly necessary.”

  “Yes, sir,” Susan said.

  ***

  George had attended more than her fair share of formal dinners; indeed, some of her earliest memories were of attending Christmas dinners at Buckingham Palace, once the war damage had been repaired. She’d never really liked them, even though the food had always been excellent; the combination of poor speakers who were madly in love with their own voices and society dames who were happy to prattle on about the need for marriage and countless grandchildren had long-since curbed her enthusiasm for eating out. She knew how to conduct herself at High Table, at least, but she would do everything within her power to decline an invitation.

  But we didn't get much of a choice, she thought, sourly. We couldn't decline an invitation to the captain’s table without being dead.

  “I bet you’re used to this sort of food all the time,” Fraser muttered, leaning close so only she could hear. “Fancy dinners all the time, hey?”

  “Not at all, sir,” George muttered back. If she’d had any doubts about just how much Fraser disliked her, she would have lost them after he’d constantly given her the hardest and most demeaning tasks to do. He rode the other midshipmen hard - she had to admit he had middy country well organised - but he reserved the worst of his attitude for her. “I’ve been eating academy food for the last four years.”

  She glanced up towards where the captain was sitting, next to the XO and his tactical officer, Paul Mason. The captain had looked at her several times, she thought, and the only reason anyone would pay attention to her was because of her name. It wasn't fair, she told herself, tiredly. If only she’d been allowed to use a false name at the academy. Prince Henry had gotten away with it and he’d been the heir to the throne!

  “Yes, I suppose that would explain the smell in the toilets,” Fraser said. “Make sure you give them an extra clean tonight.”

  “Yes, sir,” George said, resignedly.

  She cursed under her breath. As much as she hated to admit it, she was starting to think that Fraser believed there were thirty hours in a day, instead of twenty-four. Between preparing for her role in the tactical department, reading endless briefing notes and exercising, she hardly had any time to handle the chores Fraser seemed determined to bury her in. Nathan did as much as he could, but Fraser had made it clear that she was to handle her own chores.

  It would be so easy just to leave, she thought. Fraser had taunted her with the prospect of being put off Vanguard just before she left Sol, but she’d looked it up and he’d been right. If she failed to impress her superiors, she could be returned to the academy. It would mean the end of her career, at least on starships, but it was a possibility. And a word of complaint from me in the right ears would ruin him.

  She gritted her teeth. It would be easy, so easy, but she was damned if she was letting him win. Her semi-cousin had gone through hell to join the Royal Marines; his stories had chilled her to the bone, even though she’d known she had no intention of joining the marines. And for all Fraser’s best efforts, he wasn't working her anything like as hard as the marine recruits. Why, she even had twenty minutes to herself every day!

  I can take it, she thought, scowling. Whatever you pour onto me, I can take it.

  “Dismissed,” the captain said, quietly.

  George rose to her feet and followed Fraser, Nathan and two of the other midshipmen out of the compartment. The captain hadn't spoken a word to any of them, but she saw him watching her - again - as she walked through the hatch and out into the corridors. It had been an awkward dinner, she knew; too close to the senior officers for comfort, too formal to allow any real chatter. Even Fraser hadn't had the nerve to speak out loud.

  “We leave in two days,” Fraser said, after he pulled George and Nathan into the private compartment. “I am required to ask now, for the record; do either of you want to leave this ship?”

  “No, sir,” Nathan said.

  “No, sir,” George echoed.

  She thought she saw a flicker of disappointment on Fraser’s face, but it vanished too quickly for her to be sure. Had he really wanted to drive her into quitting, despite the risks it raised for his career? Or did he genuinely believe her inexperience made her a danger to the ship and her crew? Fraser seemed nothing more than a bully, yet much of his advice, however presented, was sound. She had the feeling he genuinely worked to care for the midshipmen under his supervision.

  And he’s an asshole, she
thought. It doesn't excuse anything.

  “Very well,” Fraser said. “You’ve had most of your orientation, so tomorrow you join the main duty roster. Bosworth, you will report to the helmsman at 0800; you’ll find the full details in your message box. Try not to ram the ship into any asteroids or it’ll be taken out of your salary.”

  “Sir, the odds of us hitting an asteroid are staggeringly low,” Nathan protested.

  “And the odds of encountering alien life, fifteen years ago, were also staggeringly low,” Fraser pointed out, curtly. “You’re not immune to incompetence or bad luck just because you’re flying a battleship instead of a starfighter.”

  “I’ve never flown a starfighter in my life,” Nathan said.

  “Try one of the simulators while you’re at Sin City,” Fraser said. “You can fly down the Death Star trench, if you like, shooting off missiles all the while. Or, if you have a friend in the training centre, you can borrow one of their simulators.”

  He cleared his throat. “Fitzwilliam, you will report to the tactical compartment at 0800 tomorrow,” he said, addressing George. “I would suggest you made every effort to impress Commander Mason, but it’s probably a waste of time. He’ll just take one look at your name and approve you for active service.”

  “I don’t think he will, sir,” George said. “My uncle would go ballistic.”

  Fraser’s face darkened. George knew, immediately, that mentioning her uncle, the First Space Lord, had been a mistake. Admiral Sir James Montrose Fitzwilliam had spent half of his term in office battling officers who put family names ahead of service records - he’d admitted there was a certain level of hypocritical humour in the whole affair - but his success had been somewhat limited. The Old Boy Network pervaded the entire navy.

  “Your uncle’s opinion doesn't matter,” he snarled. “You’ll report to Commander Mason and you’ll make damn sure you do a good job.”

  “Yes, sir,” George said.

  “Good,” Fraser said. His voice calmed, slightly. “I want you both to exercise, then scrub the toilets before you go to your bunks. Remember to reset your alarms and don’t wake anyone when you get up.”

  George nodded. Nathan had accidentally awoken a midshipman on their second day, who had brutally cursed him out. Fraser had assigned extra push-ups for punishment, promising that the next punishment would be a great deal worse. George believed him. After having been jerked awake far too often at the academy, it was hard not to feel that anyone who accidentally woke up a midshipman deserved the harshest of punishments.

  “Go,” Fraser ordered. “And report to me, tomorrow, after you complete your first duty shifts.”

  George groaned. Unless she was very quick, she would have hardly any time to eat before starting her second duty shift. Maybe she could smuggle out a pair of ration bars and eat them on the way back to the tactical compartment. Or maybe that was a bad idea. There was no regulation against eating in the corridors, but it was frowned upon. Fraser had threatened them with being ordered to mop the corridors before, after all.

  I shall survive, she thought, eying Fraser. And I will not let you drive me away.

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  Chapter Eight

  It said something about the designer, Susan thought, that Vanguard’s bridge was easily the largest in the fleet. Warspite’s bridge had been cramped, Cornwall’s bridge had only been marginally larger, but Vanguard’s was easily ten times larger than her cabin, even though it was crammed with consoles, holographic displays and a handful of comfortable chairs for visiting dignitaries. She sat in the XO’s chair, next to the command chair, and watched as the crew made hasty preparations to depart Sol. The omnipresent sound of the drives was growing louder, as if Vanguard herself was keen to depart. Susan found it hard to blame the giant battleship.

  She tossed the captain a sidelong glance, careful to keep her thoughts to herself. It was standard procedure for the captain to be on one bridge and the XO to be on the other, just in case something went wrong, but Captain Blake had repeated his insistence that Susan join him on the main bridge. There were captains who would cheerfully allow their junior officers to watch as the ship jumped out of the system, knowing it would be their first trip away from Earth, yet she was an experienced spacer. She’d made her first jump on Warspite, over a decade ago. It just didn’t make sense.

  “Captain,” Lieutenant Theodore Parkinson said. The communications officer looked up from his console. “All five of our escorts report ready to depart on schedule.”

  “Good,” Captain Blake said. He glanced at the timer. “Inform them that we will depart in ten minutes, barring accidents.”

  Susan frowned, inwardly. Captain Blake should also be informing Earth of his intended departure, just in case the Admiralty wanted Vanguard to remain in the system for some reason. Most captains hurried to notify their superiors, just to enjoy the moment when they were truly independent, free of outside authority, but Captain Blake seemed oddly hesitant to cut his ties to Earth. She’d wondered if he had a wife or mistress on Earth, yet - as far as she could tell - he’d spent all his time in his cabin. And the ship’s manifest didn't imply that the captain had a ... companion on the ship.

  Unless he’s bonking a crewwoman, she thought, darkly. It would be a major scandal if he was, she knew, even if it was truly consensual. A senior officer could not have a relationship with a junior officer - or a crewman - without raising the spectre of favouritism. But the only person who seems to see him regularly is his steward.

  She sighed to herself. A week of going through Commander Bothell’s notes hadn't turned up anything interesting, beyond a handful of notes on the ship’s tactical performance that she intended to study once they departed Earth. There was still no reason for his absense ... she was honestly starting to wonder if he’d gone swimming in the ocean and drowned, the undercurrents carrying his body well away from the mainland. The Admiralty had ordered her to box up his possessions and send them back to Earth, but they hadn't shown any interest in searching his cabin or interviewing any friends he might have had amongst the crew. If, of course, he’d had friends. Commander Bothell’s log entries had made him sound like a human computer, rather than a living breathing person.

  Pushing the thought aside, she looked down at her console as the flood of departmental updates began to appear in front of her. Vanguard was a well-oiled machine, she had to admit; there had been no real problems in the week since she’d assumed the post and started to assert her authority. The suspicious part of her mind insisted that she only needed to wait for the penny to drop, but it was hard to see what was likely to go wrong. Commander Bothell had done a very good job.

  And they wouldn't assign halfwits to a battleship, she reminded herself. Collectively, Vanguard’s senior officers had over a hundred years of experience in their various fields, while the junior officers had been at the top of their years at the academy. I barely need to do anything.

  “Commander,” Captain Blake said. “Perhaps you would care to take the conn?”

  Susan blinked in surprise. Very - very - few captains, at least in her experience, would give up the pleasure of commanding their ship as they entered or departed the Sol System. The only time it had ever occurred, in her experience, had been when Cornwall had been carrying the Second Space Lord back to Earth and he’d been a renowned commanding officer in his youth. But for Captain Blake to give it to her? It might have been a generous gesture, yet she couldn't help thinking that it was worrying. She’d seen nothing to suggest the captain was a generous person.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. It was a honour - and it would have been a greater one if she hadn't been sure there was a sting in the tail somewhere. “It would be my pleasure.”

  She cleared her throat. “I have the conn.”

  “You have the conn,” the captain confirmed.

  Susan braced herself as she studied the display. Technically, the captain should have left the bridge, just to avoid confusion, but
he was still sitting in his command chair, watching her through dark eyes. Was this some sort of test? Or was he blind to the implications, to the suggestion he didn't trust her to handle it? Or ... she glanced down at her console, then cleared her throat again. All she could do was carry out her duty and hope for the best.

  “Helm,” she said. “Lay in a direct course for the tramline to Terra Nova.”

  “Aye, Commander,” Lieutenant David Reed said. He was a thin bespectacled man, a man who would have looked more natural in a university than on a starship’s bridge, but his records suggested more than mere competence. “Course laid in.”

  Susan smiled, despite her worries. Reed would have had the course plotted out hours ago, along with several other potential courses, or she’d eat her uniform jacket. Hell, helmsmen were encouraged to play with their consoles when they weren't actually required to work, just to keep their skills sharp. Vanguard wasn’t anything like as manoeuvrable as a cruiser or a destroyer, let alone a starfighter, but his skills might make the difference between life and death for the entire crew.