He smiled, feeling oddly better. Charles Augustus was little more than a set of notations in a file, a character who would require a great deal of development before he could be called anything more than one-dimensional. Anyone who took a close look at the file would soon recognise it was little more than a cover, one intended to hide a greater truth. A foreign spy inserted into the Royal Navy would have a more detailed file ...
And yet Charles Augustus felt real. It was Prince Henry who felt like the fake.
“Thank you,” he said. He swallowed, suddenly, as he stood. “Will ... will I see you again?”
Lopez blinked in surprise, then smiled. “I’ll be around,” she said. “We can chat any time you want.”
Henry nodded to her, then stepped through the hatch. He had no idea if she knew who he was or not and he didn't much care. All that mattered, perhaps, was that he had someone to talk to who didn't seem impressed by his title – if, of course, she knew he had a title. And she was pretty. Prince Henry couldn't give a girl a look without having the papers speculating about an imminent marriage, but Charles Augustus could make a fool of himself with the ladies if he wanted. Sin City had been quite an education.
Smiling, he made his way back towards the barracks. It was time to swallow his pride and apologise.
***
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Kurt said. He knew he sounded shocked and he didn't really care. “Charles Augustus is actually Prince Henry – in disguise.”
“Yes,” Admiral Smith said, simply. “And you will keep this a secret.”
“His immediate superior will have to be told,” Kurt said. “There were already some questions about why Mr. Augustus was summoned to the Captain’s presence.”
“Tell them that I saw fit to deal with the first major disciplinary problem personally,” the Captain said. “It should suffice, I think.”
“It will not,” the XO countered. She looked angry. It dawned on Kurt that she too had been kept in the dark. “Are there any other surprises on this ship? Or is the Captain of the Roosevelt actually the First Son? Or ...”
The Admiral held up a hand. “It was a surprise to me too, when I was briefed on it,” he said, flatly. “The decision was taken to restrict the information as much as possible.”
“But I should have been told,” the XO said. “This could have affected my position.”
“The information was held on a strict need-to-know basis,” the Admiral said. He looked directly at Kurt. “What would you have done if you’d known, while you were putting him through training?”
Kurt frowned. “I would have tried to give him the same training as everyone else,” he said. “Whatever else can be said about him, he is a reasonably competent pilot. All he needs is seasoning and he’s been picking that up since he was assigned here.”
“But evidently not enough of it,” the XO snarled. “Captain, this is a major problem. What happens when this comes out?”
Kurt understood. It would look as though Prince Henry had been allowed to get away with it or had been given excessive punishment. Either one would make the navy look bad. But he hadn't known Augustus was Prince Henry when he’d assigned the punishment. He'd just wanted to make damn sure the incident wasn't repeated. North could easily have been injured severely – or injured the Prince himself.
“The incident will be sealed,” the Admiral said, firmly. “The files on it will be redacted, once we return to Nelson Base. They will only be opened for public consumption after everyone involved is safely dead.”
“That isn't a reliable solution,” the XO said. “Something could leak, sir.”
“Then we deal with it when it does,” the Admiral said. He looked over at Kurt, sternly. “You may share this information, in strictest confidence, with his Wing Commander. Make it clear to her that if there is any leak, it will be career-wrecking. No one else is to know.”
He paused, suddenly looking much older. “I understand that many of you feel personally offended at being left out of the loop,” he added. “However, there was no alternative.”
Kurt looked down at the deck. Berating a normal pilot was one thing; berating the heir to the throne was quite another. The King might have little formal power, but a word or two in the right ear could also be career-wrecking. He understood both the XO’s anger and the Admiral’s argument, even though he tended to sympathise with her. Her career could be destroyed if Prince Henry decided he hated her.
Hell, he thought. My career might have already been damaged. What would Molly make of that?
He knew what she’d think of him having the prince under his command. She’d expect him to befriend the prince, to use him as a contact to promote the family ... even though it would be utterly inappropriate. And she would be horrified to hear that he’d disciplined the prince, even though he needed discipline. She’d be terrified at the thought of his retaliation.
The Admiral was right, he knew. They had to keep the secret as closely as possible.
“Yes, sir,” he said, when the Admiral looked at him. “It will go no further than Rose.”
“Make sure of it,” the Admiral warned. He looked around the room. “We will be entering the next system in four hours. By then, I want the Alpha shift to be well-rested and ready for anything.”
Kurt nodded. They had no way of knowing what awaited them on the other side of the tramline. It could be anything from an alien-held system to another largely useless star and a handful of asteroids. Or it could even be a third intelligent race. The thought was surprisingly welcoming. What if there were other aliens, friendlier than the first aliens, out there? Aliens who might just talk to humanity rather than start a war?
“I believe half of my pilots are currently sleeping,” he said. He’d have a few sharp words with the Wing Commanders if they weren't. “They should be ready to take to their cockpits, if necessary.”
The Admiral smiled. “My aide is insistent that I host a dinner party,” he added. He looked oddly reluctant to do any such thing. “You are all, naturally, invited to attend.”
That wasn't an invitation, Kurt knew. It was a command.
“Yes, sir,” he said, simply. “I assume it’s for the other commanding officers?”
“Most of them, yes,” the Admiral said. He didn't sound pleased. “I’d prefer not to host any form of dinner, not now, but we finally have some time to do it.”
Kurt couldn't disagree with the logic. They’d spent far too much time just rushing around, trying to get the fleet ready for departure. There had been no time for social events. It was odd to think of having one in unknown space, where the aliens might be lurking in the darkness, but it would give the various commanding officers a chance to meet and get to know each other a little better.
“And let’s hope that we aren’t attacked while everyone is here,” the XO said.
“We won’t host the dinner unless the next system is clear,” the Admiral said, firmly. He looked over at Kurt. “Try to organise some get-togethers for pilots too. We may as well try to make sure it isn't just the commanders who meet and chat.”
“The Japanese aren't so willing to socialise, outside battle,” Kurt said. “But the French and Americans would certainly come to the party.”
“Good,” the Admiral said. “Just make sure we’re not caught on the hop.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Another boring system,” Admiral Stanley Shallcross said. “I'm starting to think we’re lost.”
Ted had to smile. They'd crossed through the tramline, every weapon and sensor primed for attack, only to discover that the new system was almost as useless as the previous system. The only moment of interest had come when they’d located a planet roughly the size of Luna, but a careful – if long-distance – investigation had revealed no trace of alien settlements. Ted had conceded, reluctantly, that the aliens only used the system as a transit point, if they used it as anything at all. But, with three tramlines going though the system, it was unlikely
that they’d completely ignored it.
We'd picket the system if we had it, he thought, even if we didn't settle the planet. Why didn't the aliens picket the system?
He pushed the thought out of his head and concentrated on socialising. It wasn't something he was very good at, even when he’d been a Captain; his career had been largely centred around Ark Royal and no one had ever invited him to any social events. Now, he found it hard to understand why they were even necessary, to the point Lopez had had to argue for hours before he'd reluctantly agreed to host the dinner. She’d pointed out, quite reasonably, that he should be meeting with his subordinates in informal session to help build up a rapport with them. And that it would be good for international relations.
“I don’t think we’re lost,” he said. “We just don’t know where we are.”
The American laughed and downed his glass of juice. Ted had been insistent on one thing; alcohol was not to be served, no matter the lax regulations when senior officers were concerned. So far, no one had complained, which was interesting. The last time he’d heard about a multinational gathering on a carrier, back before the war, a large amount of expensive alcohol had been drunk.
“But enough about the war,” Shallcross added. “We should talk about something else tonight.”
Ted looked across the compartment. Lieutenant Lopez had outdone herself, first in sourcing the food and drinks, then in arranging the decorations so the compartment looked both large enough to hold everyone while also being comfortable. Two-thirds of Ted’s subordinate commanding officers chatted away, learning more about their fellows with each word. Ted just wished he was as good at chatting to strangers as some of his subordinates. It was hard to hold a conversation with anyone new.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said, after a moment. He’d read the file the Americans had provided, but it had clearly been sanitized. “Why did you join the navy?”
“My father was a soldier from a family of soldiers,” Shallcross said. “So I joined the navy in teenage rebellion. I meant to go into the SEALS, but it turned out I had a knack for commanding starships and I was told it would be better if I stayed in the command track.”
Ted had to smile. “You don’t seem to have done badly,” he said. “Command of two carriers, then a battle squadron ... that’s nothing to sniff at, is it?”
“I like to think so,” Shallcross said. “But my father still thinks I sit on the bridge, sipping my tea, while the groundpounders pound ground.”
Ted lifted an eyebrow. “Tea?”
“Apparently, naval officers are too effeminate to drink coffee,” Shallcross said. He shrugged, expressively. “My father was a very odd man. Went out to Washington as soon as we were all old enough to leave home, built a log cabin and settled in for the long haul. Last I heard, he was organising hunting and crossing swords with the elected mayor of the nearest community.”
“Better than my father,” Ted said. “He died when I was a child.”
He felt oddly morbid for a long moment. It had never really dawned on him until after he’d sobered up that he was now older than his father had been when he’d died. His father had had three kids and a moderately successful career. Ted’s career had stalled until his ship had suddenly become important again and he’d never married, or had children. It was something he’d never really wanted for himself.
But a drunkard wouldn't make a good father, he reminded himself. And who would want to marry one?
“Looks like a disagreement over there,” Shallcross said, breaking into his thoughts. “You want to break it up?”
Ted followed his gaze. One of the American Captains was arm-wrestling the French Captain, with several other officers placing bets. It didn't look as though they were in danger of actually hurting themselves, he decided, so he shook his head. Besides, everyone needed to blow off a little steam from time to time.
“Maybe not,” he said, finally. He wanted to run back to his quarters and hide. “But we should go talk to others.”
Shallcross nodded. “I’ll go speak to Captain Atsuko,” he said. “He does seem oddly timorous for a Japanese officer.”
“Maybe he’s just careful,” Ted said. He saw the French Captain getting up and smiled to himself. “I’ll go speak to Captain Bellerose.”
The French officer gave him a wide smile as he approached. “Admiral,” he said. His voice, oddly, seemed more accented than usual. “A glorious victory for the forces of France.”
“You won, then,” Ted said. “Well done.”
“Could have been worse,” Bellerose said. He grinned, suggesting he wasn't entirely serious. “We were talking about pistols at dawn.”
Ted rolled his eyes. “And what happened, precisely?”
“We were having a discussion about the latest sports reports,” Bellerose said. “There were accusations of cheating. Everything went downhill from there.”
Ted sighed. He rarely bothered to follow sports, but he hadn't been able to avoid hearing about the scandal. Several athletes had been accused of using illicit enhancement, manipulating a little-known loophole that forbade direct enhancement, but allowed pre-birth genetic modification. The scandal had rapidly become a criminal investigation after it had been suggested that the parents had been paid to have the children genetically enhanced, just so they could be recruited later by sporting clubs. He couldn't recall the outcome, but there had been a lot of bad feeling at the time.
“Maybe better to forget about it out here,” he said. “We’re a long way from sporting matches.”
“True,” the Frenchman agreed. He produced a small bottle from his pocket, splashed some liquid into his fruit juice, then drank with obvious relish. “But it was a slur against our honour.”
“Stupid,” Ted said. “How are you coping with the exercises?”
“Pretty well, all things considered,” Bellerose said. “But we won't really know until we encounter the aliens.”
Ted couldn’t disagree. They’d exercised constantly, but most of their exercises had been carried out in the simulator. There was simply too large a chance that the aliens had developed something new, something that would upset all their planning. Ted had worked through all the possibilities he and his crew could think of, but the aliens had invented too many surprises before for him to take the prospect lightly.
“But my ship and crew will fight in the best tradition,” Bellerose assured him. He gave Ted a wink. “Even if we do have to speak your barbaric tongue.”
Ted snorted. “English seems to have won the battle for supremacy,” he pointed out. “Is there a planet, apart from Earth, that doesn't have just about everyone speak English?”
“It is a matter of some concern,” Bellerose said, quietly. “When will this cultural imperialism end?”
“Maybe we will all blur into one culture,” Ted said, after a moment. “Or maybe we will just start to separate out once again, now we have dozens of separate settled worlds.”
He looked down at the deck, remembering aspects of a very old debate. The troubles had resulted in the reassertion of a British identity, but how much of it was truly traditional and how much was idealised? Britannia itself had been careful to restrict settlement rights to people who were ethnically British, yet how could such barriers work when it was hard to define what made a Briton? How much of British society these days was actually derived from American cultural influence?
But he knew it was worse for Europe and the rest of the world. It had been America and Britain that had led the human race into space, particularly after the brief confrontation between Japan and the United States. English culture predominated outside Earth’s atmosphere; it was only since the first colonies had been established that different cultures had started to establish themselves away from Earth. And yet, how many of those cultures were still what they’d once been? It was impossible to give any precise answer.
Our culture works because it works, he thought. Poor maintenance had doomed quite a few asteroid se
ttlements, where the cold equations of space overrode everything else. But other cultures might reassert themselves on a planet’s surface.
“Some of us do worry about what will happen on Earth,” Bellerose admitted. “When those who consider themselves true heirs go to space, what happens to the rest of the planet?”
Ted gave him a sharp look. Was that a reference to Prince Henry? Or was it a perfectly innocent comment that would have passed him by, if he hadn't been worried about his royal crewman?
“I don't know,” he said, carefully. “What do you mean?”
“A third of the planet’s surface is barbaric,” Bellerose commented. “The remainder has been forced to work together, while sending settlers to alien worlds. Will Earth slowly merge into one planetary government – or collapse into chaos? And, if there is one government, what happens to the colonies?”
Ark Royal 2: The Nelson Touch Page 15