Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7)

by Christopher Nuttall

  George gave him a sidelong glance. “Why didn't you join the marines?”

  “My father was a Paratrooper until he got too old to be jumping out of airplanes with the young lads,” Fraser said. “He’d have done his nut if I’d joined the marines. He wasn't too pleased about me joining the navy - he spent four months on Vesy when I was fourteen and insisted there was still a role for the Paras - but he figured that command of a ship would be an impressive feather in my family’s cap.”

  “He would have stopped you joining the marines?” George asked. If Fraser’s father had been on Vesy a decade ago, he would have been serving alongside Percy and Penelope, her semi-cousins. “Really?”

  “They used to beat up marines for fun,” Fraser said. “Or perhaps it was the marines beating up them for fun. It changes depending on whom you ask.”

  “I’m sure it does,” George said.

  Fraser nodded and checked her work. “Good enough,” he said, snapping the boxes closed and locking them. “Did you enjoy it?”

  “I suppose,” George said.

  “Good, because we’ll be coming back here at least once a week for the next few months,” Fraser said. “More, if we can arrange it. After that, I want you continuing to practice shooting on your own.”

  “Yes, sir,” George said. She had enjoyed it, after all. “But ... what if we waste all the bullets we need to fight, if we get boarded?”

  Fraser laughed. “I was wondering how long it would take you to ask that question,” he said, dryly. “You’ll be surprised by how few officers think to ask, despite endless lectures on the value of logistics at the academy.”

  George frowned, unsure if she should be pleased or embarrassed.

  “The short answer is that the machine shop on the ship turns out thousands of cartridges a day,” Fraser explained. “Those bullets we expended? The remains get swept up and dumped in the recycler. Give the machine shop a few days and it’ll turn out enough bullets to fight a minor war. They’re not actually difficult to produce, unlike so many other pieces of gear we need.”

  “I see,” George said. “And what happens if we do run short?”

  “There’s a reserve, around ten thousand rounds,” Fraser said. “That reserve doesn't get touched, ever, unless we’re being boarded. The marines ensure there’s always an ample supply. More advanced weapons, of course, are a little harder, but you’d be surprised at what the machine shop can turn out, if necessary.”

  He glanced at his wristcom. “I have to be in the tactical compartment in twenty minutes, so I’m going to snatch a shower and then run,” he added. “Make sure you snatch a shower too - no one will thank you for stinking up the compartment with the stench of gunpowder.”

  George winced. “I’d forgotten about that,” she muttered, looking down at the deck. She’d meant to go visit Barton, now he was out of bed and on light duty until his leg was properly healed. “But thank you for the lesson.”

  “Thank me after we start unarmed combat training,” Fraser said, darkly. He rose to his feet, carrying the boxes under one arm. “I’d suggest, if you bothered to ask my advice, that you put in more time at the gym too, but that’s in your hands.”

  “I will,” George said. “But when am I meant to do it?”

  “There will be replacement midshipmen, eventually,” Fraser said, simply. “And when there are, you will have more time to develop yourself.”

  And it’s quite possible I’ll still be at the bottom of the totem pole, George thought. It wasn't a pleasant thought. She barely had three months as a midshipman and the next class wouldn't have graduated yet. Any replacements would outrank her and probably everyone below Fraser as well. That won’t be pleasant.

  She found herself staring after Fraser, feeling a strange mix of confusing emotions. He was sarcastic and rude, but he was no longer treating her as though she was something disgusting he’d found on the underside of his shoe. Indeed, he’d been almost civil. And he’d been a better tutor that she’d expected. There were layers to Fraser, she realised slowly, that weren't apparent on first glance.

  Rising to her feet, she stepped out of the compartment and hurried down the corridor, heading to the recuperation suite. Barton had been told to stay there, along with a dozen other crewmen, until the doctors certified him as fit for duty. She wasn't surprised, when she peeked in through the hatch, to see him stumbling backwards and forwards as he tested his leg. The shorts he wore made it obvious that he’d had regeneration treatments. One leg was normal, the skin slightly darker than average; the other was pale, as if it was fresh out of the womb. It would take weeks, she thought, for it to blend into his body.

  “Hi,” Barton called. He limped towards her, his movements making it look as though he was constantly on the verge of toppling over. “How are you?”

  “Tired,” George said. She wasn't surprised when he motioned her out of the compartment, even though she had every right to be there. There were five other crewmen in earshot, all pretending not to pay attention. “Peter, I think you look much better.”

  “That’s what I’ve been telling the doctor,” Barton said. “I might not be able to carry a box without crumbling under the weight, but they can strap me into a chair and I can operate the firing system. There's no need to stay on light duty.”

  He smiled. “You could try talking sense to the doctor ...”

  “And then I’d be told off by the doctor, clouted by the first middy and probably written up by the captain,” George said. She’d heard that starship doctors had the right to relieve captains of command. Doctor Chung would have no difficulty ordering her punished for sticking her nose where it didn't belong. “Do as he tells you.”

  “It’s just boring down here,” Barton moaned. He struck a dramatic pose, almost falling to the deck. “There’s nothing to do, but walk, watch movies and engage in pleasant conversation.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” George said. She didn't know what Fraser would say if he caught her watching a movie, but she doubted it would be anything pleasant. “I could do with a break.”

  “Let me take you to the seashore, when we get home,” Barton said. “I used to love walking along the cliffs and admiring the skies, before plunging into the water and freezing to death.”

  “You didn't die,” George said. It was a tempting offer - or it would have been, if she hadn't been worried about where it might lead. A relationship between her and anyone wouldn't remain private for long, not given her family. “But it sounds wonderful.”

  Barton smiled. “Or we could go to the zoo?”

  “Maybe,” George said. She glanced at her wristcom. “I have to get a shower before going back on duty, but otherwise ... I’ll see you soon.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” Barton said.

  George waved, then hurried back through the corridors to middy country. Fraser was standing in the middle of the sleeping compartment, dressing hurriedly. He gave her a surprised look as she entered and started to undress. Thankfully, she had one spare uniform she could use.

  “George,” he said. “Where were you?”

  “With Peter,” George said. “I still have time to wash.”

  Fraser looked doubtful, but he didn't have time to argue. “Don’t be late,” he said, instead. “I wouldn't want to explain it to your superior.”

  “I won't,” George said. There was something in his voice that bothered her, a hint of ... concern? “See you later, sir.”

  “You too,” Fraser said. He sounded doubtful, very doubtful. “Bye.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “I was surprised when you requested permission to use the simulators,” Susan said. “You are pushing the upper age limits.”

  Henry scowled as he clambered out of the simulator. “My former CAG was at least two decades older than me, which didn't stop him having an affair with one of his squadron commanders,” he said. There had been more to it than that, he was sure, but most of the details had been heavily classified. “He flew a s
tarfighter during the early battles of the war.”

  “A very impressive man,” Susan said. “And how did you do?”

  “Not as well as I’d hoped,” Henry admitted. He just hadn't had the time to keep up with his flying, not when he’d been on Tadpole Prime. “I’m still rated for flying shuttlecraft, but the new generation of fighters is beyond me. Taking a fighter into combat isn't going to happen.”

  “I doubt it would have happened anyway,” Susan said. “Losing you in combat would have been embarrassing.”

  Henry shrugged. The Royal Family had always known the value of appearing to share the dangers facing the common folk, although it had taken months of arguing before his family would allow him to train as a starfighter pilot. It would have been far safer, they’d tried to argue, if Henry had served as a starship officer instead. The dynasty had to be preserved, even if Henry himself didn't want the throne. But Henry had been pushed too far to care about the survival of the dynasty.

  But Susan will have enough problems when she gets home, he reminded himself. I don’t think she needs to lose me too.

  He glanced at the simulator, grimly aware of just how much he’d lost in thirteen years out of the military. His reflexes had once been good - he took some pride in knowing that he’d earned his ranking, despite his family - but now he was too slow. Simulated enemies had always been faster and tougher than real enemies, yet even reducing the parameters hadn't made matters better. He could just imagine what his instructors at the academy would have said, if they’d seen his performance. Or maybe they would have been too disgusted to speak.

  “I tried,” he said. It was unlikely anyone would allow him back in a starfighter cockpit, but he could dream. “Why do you even have a simulator anyway?”

  “The Admiralty likes to encourage crewmen to earn their flight wings,” Susan said. “It’s supposed to be a new innovation, just in case we need to ramp up the number of fighter pilots in the fleet. Not many have applied to take the exams, though.”

  “I can imagine,” Henry grunted.

  He studied the simulator, wondering why anyone had signed off on the idea. They hadn't offered crewmen the chance to transfer to starfighters in his day, although he could see why the beancounters had liked the scheme. He made a mental note to check the Admiralty’s records, when he got back to Earth. He’d be surprised if more than a handful of crewmen had ever transferred. They had far too much to unlearn if they wanted to be starfighter pilots.

  And they’re not exactly expendable, his thoughts reminded him. Starfighter pilots get so much leeway because they’re not expected to survive their first deployment.

  Susan gave him a sharp look as they walked towards the hatch. “Why did you want to try out in the first place?”

  Henry hesitated, then answered honestly. “I’ve met too many high-ranking personages who did nothing, but issue useless orders,” he said. It struck him that Captain Blake probably fell into that category too. “And too many ambassadors who did nothing but attend diplomatic dinners and stuff their faces while their underlings did all the work. I didn't want to be one of them.”

  “I understand,” Susan said. The hatch hissed open, waiting for them. “Their underlings did all the work?”

  “It provides deniability,” Henry said. He hadn't liked the concept, when he’d first heard of it, but he’d come to understand its value. “The underlings on both sides work out the treaty, then the higher-ups review it. If they like the treaty, it gets signed into law; if they don’t like it, they blame everything on the underlings and assign a different group of underlings to work out a second treaty. Or whatever they're working on.”

  He shrugged. “The Ambassador cannot walk back his own words without losing credibility,” he added, tartly. “But an underling can be sacrificed for the greater good.”

  “Shit,” Susan said.

  “There’ll be more work for me, both on Earth and on Tadpole Prime,” Henry added. “We’d kill for the FTL communications system.”

  “Maybe you can trade with the aliens,” Susan suggested. “We must have something they want.”

  Henry shook his head. “If I was in their shoes, I wouldn't trade FTL communications for anything,” he said. “It gives them too great an advantage.”

  He contemplated the problem for a long moment. If there were two alien races, not one, they must have a way to communicate. He couldn't imagine an alliance without some way to share ideas. Hell, if humans had problems running alliances with other humans, he couldn't imagine how hard it would be with two different races ...

  And we’re going to have to work with the Tadpoles, he reminded himself. The treaty committed humanity to support their allies, even if human ships hadn't been caught up in the fighting. That’s not going to be easy.

  “I think ...”

  He broke off as the alarms started to howl. “All hands to battlestations,” Mason’s voice said. “I say again, all hands to battlestations. Captain to the bridge!”

  “Crap,” Susan said. “Go back to your quarters and stay there.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Henry said.

  He watched her striding down the corridor, not quite running, then turned and headed back towards his suite. Once, he would have been amongst the first starfighter pilots to be launched into space; now, he was just deadweight. There was nothing he could do to influence the course of the battle, but wait in his cabin and pray Vanguard didn't take a fatal hit.

  No wonder the higher-ups keep issuing so many useless orders, he thought, darkly. For the first time in his life, he thought he understood them. They feel helpless to affect what’s happening around them.

  ***

  “Captain,” Mason said, as Susan entered the bridge. “Long-range sensors detected a large enemy fleet heading towards Tramline Three.”

  Susan blinked in surprise. “Not heading towards us?”

  “No, Captain,” Charlotte confirmed. “It looks like the fleet is heading directly into Tadpole space. They’re barely two jumps from Tadpole-453.”

  “Show me,” Susan ordered. “And forward all of our sensor readings to the flag.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Parkinson said.

  Susan leaned forward as a handful of red icons appeared on the display. They didn't seem to be aware of the fleet’s presence - she reminded herself, rather sharply, that they were nearly ten light minutes away - but they didn't seem to be searching either. Instead, they looked as if they were launching an invasion. She tapped her display, bringing up the starchart showing tramlines running through the sector. The enemy fleet might have come from UXS-469 ... or it might have come through another set of tramlines, branching off into enemy space.

  We are not dealing with a race that’s limited to one star system, she told herself. If she’d had any doubts, and she’d lost most of them after stumbling across the alien colony, they were gone now. Their civilisation may be as big and powerful as our own - or larger.

  “They’ll cross the tramline in two hours, assuming they maintain their course and speed,” Charlotte said.

  “They’re planning to attack the Tadpoles,” Mason said. “They can’t have anything else in mind.”

  Susan was inclined to agree, although her mind kept tossing up question marks. The aliens weren’t surveying, unless they’d sent out a survey squadron while the fleet had been putting itself back together; they were launching a full-scale invasion. And that meant ... what? Had the aliens tracked the survey ships as they retreated from UXS-469? Or had they known about the Tadpoles for years? Humans would have tried to make contact, she was sure, but aliens might have reacted differently. God knew the Tadpoles had started preparing for war from the moment they’d first encountered the expanding edge of human space.

  “They may have stopped looking for us,” Mason offered.

  “Or we might just have flown past their hunting parties,” Susan said. She wouldn't have allowed a powerful fleet to remain in her backyard, but the aliens might have different though
ts. Besides, they’d spent the last fortnight dodging the slightest hint of alien contact as they crawled home. “Or their fleet might be trying to sneak up behind us.”

  “Signal from the flag, Captain,” Parkinson said. Roosevelt was barely close enough for a real-time conversation. “Captain Harper wants to speak to you.”

  “Put him through,” Susan ordered.

  Captain Harper’s face appeared in front of her. “Captain,” he said. “It appears we have a situation.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Susan agreed. “It looks as though the enemy are invading Tadpole space.”

  “And blocking our way home,” Captain Harper said. “My officers predict they’ll be attacking the nearest friendly base within two days, perhaps less.”

  Susan nodded. “We need to shadow them,” she said. “Taking a longer path to the tramline will leave us unable to intervene when all hell breaks loose.”