Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7)

by Christopher Nuttall

  But the shiver wouldn't go away.

  She pushed the thought aside and studied the display as starship after starship blinked into existence. Sixty-one human starships, including five fleet carriers; forty-one Tadpole starships, including three fleet carriers and five superdreadnaughts. It was the single most powerful fleet to be deployed, ever; she had no doubt they could smash through both fleets if they were sent back in time to the First Interstellar War. Coordinating the fleet was a major headache - she’d lost count of the number of soothing messages she’d had to send to various commanding officers - but it was still formidable. If the newcomers wanted a fight, they’d rapidly find themselves in serious trouble.

  “Long-range sensors are clear,” Charlotte reported. “There’s no sign of any activity within the system.”

  Susan scowled. She’d argued - or, rather, primed the captain to argue - that the fleet should enter UXS-469 under cloak. She wouldn't be too happy if she saw an immense fleet entering the Terra Nova System, a single jump from Earth, and she saw no reason to assume the aliens would disagree. But Captain Blake had been overruled. If the newcomers had no access to the tramlines, there was no point in keeping the fleet cloaked and, if they did, they’d probably be nervous if they detected a cloaked fleet. Susan privately suspected the argument was nonsense, but there was no way she could push her point any harder. The absence of starships, settlements and navigational beacons within UXS-469 did suggest that the aliens either couldn't reach the system or considered it useless.

  But there’s at least one other tramline that should be usable, if they could get here in the first place, she thought. And it leads directly to Tadpole space.

  “Keep us at tactical alert,” she ordered. She had to bite down the impulse to issue orders to the screen, but Admiral Boskone held that authority. “And make sure we remain linked to the fleet command network.”

  “Aye, Commander,” Mason said.

  Susan glanced down at her console as the fleet slowly advanced into the system, leaving the tramline behind. They’d crawl to the other tramline, if they followed the plan, and then send scouts through before the contact ship made its own jump. If the aliens were waiting on the other side, with bad intentions, the scouts would detect them before it was too late. And yet, no one thought that was likely. Guarding an entire tramline was beyond the capabilities of every human navy, working together.

  “Orders from the flag,” Parkinson reported. “The fleet is to advance along its planned course.”

  Susan sucked in a breath. Admiral Boskone and Admiral Pournelle didn't see any reason to delay, then. She found it hard to blame them - a successful first contact would put both men in the record books - but she still felt inclined to be cautious. Or perhaps it was the Tadpoles, insisting on an early first contact. Given how badly they’d reacted to a botched first contact, they probably had good reason to want to establish friendly contact before there were any incidents.

  And there were incidents on their homeworld that caused problems, she thought, grimly. If we hadn't been talking to them, would we have had another war?

  “Very well,” she said, slowly. “Helm, take us away from the tramline as planned.”

  She leaned back in the command chair, silently grateful the captain wasn't on the bridge. The fleet surrounding Vanguard was powerful, enough firepower to cover a retreat if necessary, yet the nasty sensation at the back of her mind refused to go away. Perhaps it was simple proximity to the alien tramline, perhaps it was just stress caused by her contingency planning ... but she still felt worried. She hadn't felt so concerned since the tactical exercises she’d done at the academy, where her grade had depended on beating her fellow cadets ...

  “Sensors,” she said. “Are there no contacts at all?”

  “Nothing apart from the fleet itself, Commander,” Charlotte assured her. “We have every inch of space for light-seconds around the fleet under constant observation. We’d know if a single atom of space dust was out of position.”

  “Good,” Susan said. She didn't feel any better, but there was nothing she could do about the sensation bothering her. “Continue to monitor local space.”

  Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to relax. There was no evidence that they weren't alone in UXS-469, there was nothing to suggest they were being watched ... and yet, the hairs on the back of her neck continued to prickle. Maybe it was just psychometric ...

  But we’ve taken all the precautions we can, she thought, grimly. We’re ready for anything ...

  ***

  “That’s a Tadpole fleet carrier,” Gunner Fitzroy Simpson said. He was a short man, with a muscular body and a kindly face that reminded George of her first teacher. “See if you can draw a bead on her.”

  George nodded, angling the targeting system so the main gun was pointed directly at the Tadpole starship. She wasn’t quite out of effective range, but the magnetic bottles that kept the superhot plasma in position would probably start to degrade before they struck the Tadpole starship’s hull. No one was quite sure just how heavily the Tadpoles armoured their latest generation of fleet carriers, yet George was sure they’d know they’d been kissed. The battleship’s plasma cannons were an order of magnitude more powerful than any the Tadpoles had been known to deploy themselves.

  “I’m targeting her drives,” she said. She rather liked the gunners, although they kept themselves to themselves when they weren't on duty. “That should cripple her even if it doesn't destroy her.”

  “Very good,” Simpson said. He tapped another icon on the screen. “And what do you make of that target?”

  “Armoured superdreadnaught,” George said. She closed her eyes as she recited from memory. “Probably immune to long-range fire.”

  “Probably,” Simpson agreed. “We might scratch her hull, but burning through her armour would require a steady bombardment.”

  George nodded. She’d studied the final battle of the war, between Ark Royal and a Tadpole superdreadnaught, and she’d been struck by just how confident the Tadpoles had been that they could burn through the Old Lady’s armour before she rammed their ship. But they’d underestimated the extra layers of armour that had been woven over the ancient carrier before committing themselves to a death ride. Vanguard might have been able to kill Ark Royal before it was too late - the gunners were rather reluctant to discuss possibilities with her - but anything lesser would have died with the Old Lady.

  “They’ll have upgraded their weapons,” she said, slowly. “Won’t they?”

  “Probably,” Simpson said. He didn't sound concerned, which surprised her. “We keep updating our own weapons too.”

  “That’s true,” another gunner said. Peter Barton was only a year or two older than George, young enough that she’d caught him glancing at her once or twice when he thought she wasn't looking. “Why, I’ve heard the boffins are coming up with a one-shot weapon that will blow a superdreadnaught into dust.”

  “Let us hope not,” Simpson said, dryly. “A weapon that can turn one of their ships into dust can easily do the same to ours.”

  George nodded in agreement. She’d heard rumours - everyone heard rumours - that Britain and every other spacefaring nation was throwing money into all kinds of advanced or unusual weapons programs. There hadn't been anything concrete - half the rumours had been concepts stolen from various science-fantasy programs - but she was certain there was some truth to the rumours. The human race couldn't afford to let the Tadpoles have a breakthrough that rendered the Royal Navy nothing more than scrap metal.

  “We’d be back in the days of tin-can ships,” Simpson added. “Cramped little pieces of metal, one-hit wonders. And he who brought the most to a fight would win.”

  “I saw one of those ships in London,” George recalled. “They were tiny!”

  She smiled at the memory. Her mother, perhaps intent on keeping her from joining the navy, had taken her to the Imperial War Museum as soon as it reopened after the floods, where the family name
had been enough to convince the curators to allow her to crawl around inside HMS Victory, the first true British warship. She’d been ugly, nothing more than a handful of modules buckled around a plasma drive and her crew crammed into quarters that made middy country look huge, and yet she’d been truly fascinating. But Simpson was right too. A single warhead - a conventional warhead, rather than a nuke - would have been more than enough to vaporise the ship.

  “My grandfather used to fly on them,” Simpson said. “He said we have it easy.”

  “We don’t have it easy,” Barton protested. “Changing the plasma conduits is hard work.”

  “Back then, if they sprang a leak, they were in deep shit,” Simpson said. “And they didn't even have artificial gravity. They floated around the ship and strapped themselves down when the time came to change course.”

  “Might have been fun,” Barton insisted. “You can do a lot in zero-gee.”

  “They didn’t have muscle regenerators either,” Simpson pointed out. “You spend a few months on one of those ships, you’ll be as weak as a kitten.”

  George shivered. The early fears that lunar colonists would be unable to return to the homeworld had proved unfounded, but muscle decay had proved a very real problem, forcing the colonists to exercise daily if they ever wanted to go back home. There were a handful of asteroid colonies without gravity, where the inhabitants could fly around like birds ... at the cost of never being able to enter a gravity field again. They’d looked inhuman, she recalled from her studies; so thin and delicate that she’d be afraid to touch one. She had no doubt that humans belonged in space, but there was no need to strip the human race of its ability to live on a planet.

  Simpson cleared his throat. “That’s enough target practice for one day,” he said. “Why don’t you and Peter inspect the tubes?”

  “Yes, sir,” Barton said.

  George carefully deactivated the console, then stepped back. There wasn't any real prospect of accidentally opening fire on a nearby starship, she’d been assured, but caution had been drummed into her at the academy. The turrets were designed to act on their own, if necessary, although she found it hard to imagine the ship taking so much damage the turrets couldn’t be controlled from the bridge. What would happen, she wondered, if each of the eight turrets engaged eight different targets?

  “This way,” Barton said. “Coming?”

  “Yep,” George said.

  Barton pulled back a hatch, allowing them to climb into the tubes surrounding the gunnery station. The temperature seemed warmer, although George had never been sure if it genuinely was hotter or if it was just the awareness that she was far too close to a dozen containment fields, each one holding enough superhot plasma to vaporise an entire section of the hull. If there was a leak, she’d been told when she’d first started her work in the turret, she’d be vaporised so completely that no one would ever know she’d been there.

  “We need to check the containment systems here,” Barton said. “Make sure there’s nothing older than a couple of months.”

  “Understood,” George said. “Is the venting system online?”

  “Just in case,” Barton confirmed. “I don’t think the gunner will thank us if we accidentally vent a containment chamber.”

  George nodded - if nothing else, the chamber would have to be carefully inspected, then refilled - and started to check the field components, one by one. Barton did the same on the other side of the section, making notes as he worked. A couple of components were reaching the end of their service, even though they didn't need to be replaced immediately. George had a feeling Simpson would make sure they were replaced a week before regulations insisted they had to be replaced. Simpson hadn't risen to his current post by taking chances.

  “Some of these parts can be broken down and refurbished, then sold to civilians,” Barton commented. “Or turned into mines.”

  “Pretty dangerous work,” George said. “Who’d want them?”

  “Less dangerous than you might think,” Barton said. He glanced up at her, his face shining with sweat. “There’s a shitload of redundancy built into each of these little beauties. We replace them because our demands change randomly, but a civilian power system wouldn't have so many shifts in demand. Or we can just use them to construct mines.”

  George made a face. Minefields were normally wasted in space, although mining the skies over a couple of worlds had delayed the Tadpoles by a few hours. On the other hand, if an enemy force could be lured into the minefield ... she saw the idea, but she wouldn't have wanted to try it. A single mistake could turn the minefield into a deadly trap for both sides.

  And civilians talk about mining the tramlines, she thought. It just isn't possible.

  She finished her section, then moved over to recheck Barton’s work. She’d found it annoying, back when she’d started at the academy, but there had been enough early problems for her to understand the value. He’d check her work, just in case she’d missed something; she worked her way through her section and decided he’d done everything right. But then, with Simpson riding herd on him, she doubted he’d dare to make a mistake. The gunner’s disappointment would be worse than a screaming fit.

  “So,” Barton said, as he finished. His voice was casual, too casual. “When do you expect your next shore leave?”

  George laughed, despite herself. “I have no idea,” she said. She was an officer, to all intents and purposes and he was a crewman; he certainly shouldn't be trying to pick her up. And yet, she had to admire his nerve. “It depends on where the ship goes, doesn't it?”

  ***

  “Welcome to the bridge, Your Highness,” Captain Blake said.

  Henry groaned, resisting the urge to shoot a murderous look at the captain’s back as he relieved his XO. He’d told Captain Blake seven times - at least - that he was no longer in the line of succession, yet the man kept insisting on addressing him as Your Highness. He wouldn’t have minded Sir, or Flying Officer - it had been his rank when he'd left the navy - or Mr. Ambassador but Your Highness was nothing more than a reminder of the past, a past he’d put firmly behind him.

  And Victoria is going to grow up without being in line to the throne, he told himself, as he stood at the back of the bridge. And any reporter who even looks at her funny is going to be hit with a harassment suit.

  He smiled at the thought - putting a reporter through legal hell would have given him no end of pleasure - as he studied the display. UXS-469 looked deserted, save for the joint fleet; a handful of scouts were already racing towards the alien tramline. There was no sign of any unknown starships, yet he understood why so many officers were concerned. Logically, the newcomers should have access to the tramlines. Why hadn't they picketed UXS-469, if nothing else? It was what both humanity and the Tadpoles would have done?

  Perhaps this is the very edge of their space, he thought. And the world we’re approaching is their version of Cromwell or Pegasus.

  “As you can see, Your Highness, all is in order,” Captain Blake said. “There’s no sign of alien contact.”

  “That is always good to hear,” Henry said, keeping his expression blank. He’d learned to hide his true feelings early in life, although living on Tadpole Prime had weakened his control. There was no point in maintaining a poker face when the Tadpoles wouldn't have noticed - or cared - if he’d thrown a tantrum. “Let us hope things stay that way.”

  “Ah, yes,” Captain Blake said. He nodded towards an unoccupied console. “If you’d care to take that ...”

  Henry nodded and strode over to the chair. He had no idea how his father endured so many ceremonies without either strong drink or mental conditioning - or why his sister actually wanted to be Queen. Didn’t she have enough problems as a princess? If she put on even a little weight, she was fat; if she slimmed down, she was terrifyingly thin ...

  “Captain,” the sensor officer said. “I’m picking up something odd, behind us.”

  The XO sat upright. “What?”


  “I’m not sure,” the sensor officer admitted. Her already pale face seemed to pale further. “It could be a sensor distortion field. I can’t see it directly, but there are hints from the other ships ...”

  “Alert Admiral Boskone,” the XO ordered. She shot a sharp glance at Henry. “Captain, I recommend we move to red alert.”

  “We don’t know what the contact is,” the captain objected.

  Henry groaned inwardly. He’d flown starfighters, not starships, but even he knew that the mystery contact was too close. And it was blocking their line of retreat. If that was a coincidence, it was a very dangerous one. The fleet needed to know what was creeping up behind it, now ...

  The display flared with red light. “I’m picking up active sensors, multiple sources,” the sensor officer snapped. “Sensor analysis calls them targeting sensors.”

  “Red alert,” the XO snapped, hitting a control on her console. Alarms started to howl. “All hands to battlestations. I say again ...”