Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Very well,” she said. She was definitely far too tired if her mind was wandering in inappropriate directions. “Wake me the moment - and I mean the moment - anything happens.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Mason said. He sounded reluctant, which puzzled her until she realised he genuinely cared. “But they didn't follow us through the tramline ...”

  Susan shrugged. It hadn't been easy to refurbish human Puller Drives to allow them to use the alien-grade tramlines, but it had been done. Humanity’s fleet carriers had been ready to use the tramlines within six months of the Battle of Vera Cruz, although humanity had had a boost from a captured alien warship. How long would it take the unknowns? Coming to think of it, had they captured any ships themselves? They’d certainly left thousands of pieces of debris drifting around the red star ...

  And if one of those pieces of debris happens to include a computer core with an astrographic database, she thought, we might be in deep shit.

  “We don’t know what they might be able to do,” she said, instead. Human computer cores were designed to destroy themselves, if their ships were blown out of space. Even a disabled starship should be able to trigger the destruct sequence. And yet, she knew she’d never be entirely sure. “It’s better to be careful.”

  She watched him leave the room, then turned and walked into the bedroom. Too tired to undress, she flung herself down on the bed and closed her eyes. How long had it been, she asked herself, since she’d slept? She knew it was important ... and yet, she felt guilty for even considering going to bed. The ship needed her. They’d survived their first combat test by the skin of their teeth.

  But right now you can barely think straight, she told herself. She’d come far too close to inviting Mason into her bed, a mistake she couldn't afford. You need to sleep.

  And yet, despite her utter exhaustion, sleep was a long time in coming.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “The hatch is jammed,” Fraser called. “We’ll have to open the door manually.”

  George nodded, too tired to speak out loud. The moment they’d been rescued from the airlock, the gunners had been sent to help with Turret Five while she'd been reassigned to Fraser and ordered to assist him in searching the remainder of the ship. Fraser wasn't such an asshole any longer, but still ... she wished she knew what had happened to the other midshipmen. Some of them were her friends.

  She watched as Fraser removed a protective plate and peered down at the innards. The interior airlocks were meant to be sealed, but there were ways to unlock the hatch if one knew precisely what to do. Fraser fiddled for a long moment, then glanced at her and pushed a switch. The hatch shuddered, once, then jumped back just enough to allow her to insert her fingers into the gap. Fraser joined her and, together, they pulled the hatch back and locked it in place. She gasped and almost let go of the hatch as she saw the interior of the compartment. Two dead bodies lay on the deck, one missing a head, while a third man - badly wounded - was lying on top of a console.

  “Check him,” Fraser ordered, keying his wristcom. “Sir, we have two more KIA and one WIA.”

  “He’s pretty bad,” George said. She didn't dare try to move the wounded man. Judging from the way the console was digging into his chest, it might be the only thing keeping the blood in his body. “We need a medic team.”

  “We need medics,” Fraser repeated. He glanced at the wounded man, then grimaced. “Code Blue. I say again, Code Blue.”

  George shuddered. She’d been taught that Code Blue signified someone who needed immediate medical attention, but during wartime the medical staff might not have time to do anything more than make the victim comfortable and leave him to die. Her tutors had explained that it was the only way to handle the situation - the time taken to save one badly wounded person might be more profitably used to save a dozen people with lesser wounds - but she hadn't been very comfortable with the idea, even when it was purely theoretical. Now all she could do was watch and pray that the medical team arrived on time.

  She glanced around, unsure just what had happened to the compartment. One of the enemy laser warheads had struck the hull, not too far away, but the compartment should have been safe. Another power surge? Or had the shock hurled all three of the men across the compartment? The headless man might just have had a terrible encounter with the console ...

  “One of the segments came loose,” Fraser said, pointing. The missing head was lying on the deck, blood pooling around it. “Poor bastard never stood a chance.”

  George took a deep breath and instantly regretted it, as she breathed in the stench of blood, shit and death. The air filters seemed to have been disabled; they’d known the compartment was still pressurised, but the local life support wasn't functional. Vanguard was intensely compartmentalised, she knew. No doubt a strength could turn into a terrible weakness if something went badly wrong.

  The medics appeared, carrying a stretcher between them. George watched, unable to tear her eyes away, as they checked the wounded man, then carefully lifted him away from the console and placed him on the stretcher. Fraser spoke briefly to the medic, then beckoned George to take a body-bag and wrap up one of the bodies. George shuddered at the thought of touching a dead man, but there was no choice.

  “Take one of the dog-tags,” Fraser reminded her, as she zipped up the bag. “We’ll hand them in to the XO before we go off duty.”

  George nodded, then made a careful note of where they’d left the bodies before moving on to the next compartment. It was empty, mercifully; the compartment beyond was empty, but sealed. The section beyond that was exposed to vacuum. They’d have to wait until the engineering crew had time to patch up the hull, she noted, as Fraser called in the report and led her back, deeper into the ship. She’d already had one close encounter with vacuum and she didn't want another.

  “They’ll send us somewhere else in a moment,” Fraser predicted, once they reached a corridor. He sat down, leaning against the bulkhead as he scrabbled in his pouch and produced a chocolate bar. “Here.”

  “Thank you,” George said, automatically. She blinked in surprise as she realised it was one of the bars she’d brought with her, nearly two months ago. It felt as if she’d been on the ship for years. “Have you been carrying it around for months?”

  Fraser smiled, rather crookedly. “Grabbed them on the way out of the hatch,” he said. “I had a feeling they might be necessary.”

  George eyed him doubtfully as she opened the wrapping, then munched contentedly on the chocolate. It wasn't a ration bar, a tasteless piece of cardboard that was supposed to include all the nutrients growing spacers needed each day, but it would keep them both going for a few more hours. She knew she needed sleep, yet there was just too much work to do. And besides, they were expendable. Who knew what might be lurking in the next sealed compartment?

  “We could have died,” she said, softly. Fraser was the last person she would have chosen to pour her heart out to, but the words just came bubbling up. “They could have killed us!”

  “They did kill thousands of others,” Fraser said, quietly. “I was in the tactical compartment, back when it all kicked off. They blew away all but one of the carriers. I don’t know if anyone survived.”

  George shuddered, trying to calculate the death toll. There were at least two thousand British crewmen assigned to a single carrier and the American carriers were larger. And that meant ... over ten thousand dead, perhaps more. She understood, for the first time, the shockwaves that had echoed through the Royal Navy, after the Battle of New Russia. Meeting a new alien race was one thing, but losing so many carriers so quickly ...

  “They might have had a chance to get to the lifepods,” she said. “They could have blasted free of the hulks ...”

  “Maybe,” Fraser said. He turned to look at her. “Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know,” George said. She had too many conflicting feelings running through her brain and the tiredness didn't help. “Does it get any better
?”

  Fraser rested a hand on her shoulder, just for a moment. “You learn,” he said. He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, then let go. “But it never gets easier.”

  He rose, sticking the wrapper in his pocket. “There are other compartments to check out,” he added. “And we may not get any rest until we’re dead.”

  George rose, then followed him through a whole string of compartments. There were no more dead bodies, thankfully, but some of the systems showed signs of damage. Fraser logged it all for the damage control teams; George checked and rechecked his work, sometimes adding her own notes for the logs. They were doing a useful - and necessary - task, she knew, and yet ... part of her wondered if it was just busywork. The ship’s sensors should be able to keep track of its interior, surely ...

  “It wouldn't be the first time a computer network was split in two, then refused to reconnect,” Fraser said. “The engineering staff may have problems convincing it to reunite.”

  “Oh,” George said. “They’re not going to start battling over which of them is the real computer, right?”

  “You really have to stop watching those movies,” Fraser said, although there was an undeniable hint of amusement in his voice. “Real life doesn't work like in the movies.”

  George smirked. “Really? I hadn't noticed.”

  Their wristcoms buzzed. “Midshipman Fraser, Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam,” a voice said, curtly. “Report to sickbay at once.”

  “Understood,” Fraser said. “We’re on our way.”

  He hurried down a corridor, George following him, looking for the quickest way through the damaged ship to sickbay. A handful of compartments seemed to have been converted into temporary storage spaces for body-bags, the marines carrying them through the ship and placing them neatly on the deck. George wondered, grimly, just what would happen to the bodies, once the ship returned home. Burial in space, like most spacers, or handed over to the families for a quiet funeral?

  “This way,” Fraser said.

  George shuddered as they entered sickbay. There was a wounded crewman in every bed and others lying on mattresses on the deck. A string of others were sitting just past the hatch, clearly too badly wounded to go back to work and yet not badly enough to receive immediate treatment. George saw Barton sitting with them and gave him a wave, receiving a shy wave in return. Fraser elbowed her, gently, as they walked up to the doctor.

  “Reporting as ordered,” he said, shortly.

  “Good,” the doctor said. She was a harassed-looking young woman, barely a couple of years older than George herself. The senior doctor was missing, probably in one of the operating chambers. “Midshipwoman, I understand you went EVA. Did you notice any long-lasting effects?”

  “No, doctor,” George said. “I felt cold, for a while, but nothing else.”

  The doctor studied her for a long moment. “No numbness? No traces of decompression sickness?”

  “I had a mask and a shipsuit,” George said. “There was no permanent damage.”

  “You certainly don’t seem to be having any problems,” the doctor agreed. “Inform me or another doctor at once if you have any problems, even if they seem mild.”

  “Understood,” George said.

  She stepped away from Fraser to let him speak to the doctor in private, wondering if he’d give her a hard time - later - if she went to chat to Barton. But he was surrounded by a handful of other wounded men, all seemingly swapping lies about their exploits. She waved at him instead, then glanced into a sideroom. A handful of bodies lay on the deck, half-wrapped in body-bags. And then she froze in horror as she recognised one of them.

  “Nathan,” she breathed.

  She stumbled forward, hardly aware of her movements. Nathan was dead, his face pale; he looked normal until she was almost on top of him, when she saw that something had dented the left side of his skull. Blood matted his hair, yet it didn't look serious ... her head spun, just for a long moment, as she tried to take it in. Nathan had been a friend, a fellow cadet ... they’d gone through the academy together. And now he was dead ...

  “You shouldn't be in here,” a stern voice said.

  George jumped, then spun around. A dark-skinned man was standing there, carrying another body-bag slung over his shoulder. A marine, she noted; a lieutenant, if she recalled their rank stripes correctly. He placed the bag on the deck, then scowled at her. George nodded, too tired and stunned to argue, and hurried out of the chamber. Fraser met her outside, looking puzzled. She caught his arm and half-dragged him out of sickbay.

  “Nathan is dead,” she said. She stumbled and would have fallen, if he hadn’t caught hold of her. “He ... he’s dead!”

  Fraser’s eyes went wide with shock, but he showed no other reaction. “He was on one of the damage control teams, wasn't he? He must have been caught in an explosion ...”

  “The body looked largely intact,” George said. She felt herself shudder, again. “He’s dead!”

  “And it’s high time you had a nap,” Fraser said. He glanced at his wristcom. “We’ve been placed on reduced duty for the moment, as we’ve been up for hours.”

  George steadied herself and let go of him. “Can we afford to sleep?”

  “Unless you want to start seeing gremlins destroying the ship, then yes,” Fraser said. “The XO seems to have decided she can spare us for the next few hours.”

  George felt almost dazed as they walked back to middy country, barely seeing the crewmen they passed on the way. Nathan couldn't be dead. There had been too much life in him for him to die. And yet, she’d seen the body. Her friend was dead ... he’d never joke with her again, he’d never comfort her again, he’d never flirt with every girl he met on shore leave, just to see who’d take him up on it ...

  “We’re here,” Fraser said, opening the hatch. The sleeping compartment was deserted, but messy, one of the lockers had sprung over, dumping its contents onto the deck. “Get into your rack and have at least five hours of sleep.”

  “He didn't deserve to die,” George said, numbly. She’d known that people died on naval service, but she hadn't really believed it, not until now. “He was a good man.”

  “He was,” Fraser agreed, shortly.

  “You should have died instead,” George said, bitterly. “Why did he have to die?”

  Fraser’s eyes flashed with anger, but he controlled himself. “Shit happens,” he said. “A young midshipman, fresh out of the academy, is among the list of the dead. It’s a tragedy, but life does go on.”

  “Not for him,” George snarled.

  “Tell me something,” Fraser said, a hard edge entering his tone. “If he were alive and you were dead, would you want him to waste his time moaning or getting some much-needed sleep?”

  George balled her fists. “That’s not fair!”

  “Life isn't fair,” Fraser said. “And you are acting like a twelve-year-old schoolgirl because you are tired, cranky and in shock. Now, get into your rack and get some bloody sleep!”

  The hatch opened. Honoraria stepped into the compartment. “What’s up?”

  “Nathan is dead,” Fraser said. “And George is taking it badly.”

  “Shit,” Honoraria said. She removed her jacket, hung it up from the railing and clambered into her rack without bothering to undress further. “I'm sorry to hear that, really I am.”

  “Keep an eye on George, if you can,” Fraser said. “I need to do a couple of other things before I hit my rack.”

  “Yes, sir,” Honoraria said.

  Fraser pointed a finger at George. “And if I catch you outside this compartment in less than five hours,” he added, “I’m going to give you such a clout.”

  “Believe him,” Honoraria said, as Fraser stalked through the hatch. “He’ll do it, too.”

  George scrambled into her rack, pulled her curtain closed and fought hard to keep from crying. Nathan had been a friend, a partner, an ally ... and now he was gone. She’d met his family twice, when they’d visited the
academy; she’d invited him home, even though he’d been too shy to meet so many wealthy and powerful aristocrats. They’d been close friends, comrades, allies in arms ...

  It should have been me, she thought, as she closed her eyes. Nathan was doing so much better ...

  The next thing she knew, someone was tapping gently at the curtain. George jerked awake - no one would deliberately wake a sleeping midshipman unless it was urgent - and tore back the curtain. Fraser was standing there, looking pensive. She stared at him in horror, unsure what was going on. How long had she been asleep?

  “You're due to report to the tactical section in two hours,” Fraser told her. George grabbed for her wristcom and checked the time. She'd been asleep for nearly seven hours, but it felt as if she’d barely touched the pillow before waking up. “And before then, we have something to do.”