A Savage War Of Peace (Ark Royal Book 5)

by Christopher Nuttall

  He shook his head. No doubt they’d find out when the small army of researchers went to work on Vesy.

  And it lets us keep control, he thought, with some amusement. We can deactivate automatic translators and voders if necessary.

  “They’ve acknowledged,” Lieutenant Forbes informed him. “They’re powering up their drives now.”

  John nodded, feeling a spark of genuine excitement. It wasn't quite the same as taking Warspite into the unknown - he couldn't help feeling a twinge of guilt at not having completed the survey of local stars and tramlines around Pegasus - but there was definitely something about taking his small squadron away from Earth. He, not the Admiralty, not the Prime Minister, not even the King himself, would be in command, master of his squadron. It was a heady responsibility, but one he enjoyed. There was nothing quite like it as a starfighter pilot.

  But you had other entertainments, he reminded himself. You could spend your time off-duty shacked up with Colin and no one gave a damn.

  The thought caused him a flicker of pain. It had been five years since the war, five years since Colin had been blown to bits by the Tadpoles ... and his loss still hurt. It sometimes made him wonder if there was something wrong with him, when most starfighter pilots moved from love interest to love interest with nary a qualm. Or maybe it had just been love ... hell, they’d talked about finding a home together when the war came to an end. Not, in the end, that it had mattered. Colin had died and John had been unable to even think of staying on as a starfighter pilot. It felt too much like a betrayal.

  He cleared his throat. “Mr. Howard,” he said. “Ship’s status?”

  “All systems are nominal, Captain,” Howard said. “We are ready to depart on your command.”

  “Lieutenant Forbes, send a signal to Nelson Base,” John ordered. “Inform them that we are departing on schedule.”

  “Aye, sir,” Gillian said.

  John sucked in his breath, feeling a dull thrumming echoing through the hull as the main drives came online. This time, there would be no problems; this time, everything had been checked and rechecked twice by different officers. If there was another criminal gang operating within the bowels of his ship, it would have been forced to pull in its horns or be mercilessly exposed to the cold light of day. This time, he would not suffer the humiliation of having his starship drifting helplessly through space, an easy target for anyone who wanted to pick off a cruiser without risk.

  And the pirates taught us that there are still threats out there, he thought, bitterly. And the Tadpoles may restart the war if they feel we are still a threat to them.

  It wasn't a comforting thought. The Russians hadn't been particularly forthcoming on the question of just how many ships might have gone rogue and it was quite possible there were more deserters out there. There were a number of Russian ships unaccounted for, according to MI6, but the chaos of the Battle of New Russia had probably concealed their destruction from prying eyes. And the Russians were not the only ones who had lost ships. John had been told, in confidence, that a review of the available records suggested that upwards of seventeen ships from other interstellar powers remained unaccounted for.

  We should have asked the Tadpoles for their records of the battle, he thought. But no one really wanted to open that particular can of worms.

  “Course laid in, sir,” Lieutenant Carlos Armstrong reported. “We’re on a least-time course to Vesy.”

  John leaned back in his command chair. “Lieutenant Forbes,” he said, “order the other ships to follow us.”

  “Aye, sir,” Gillian said.

  “Helm, take us out,” John added.

  Another dull quiver ran through the ship as she came to life, slowly heading out of orbit and into the open space beyond. John watched the holographic display carefully, silently counting the number of starships leaving Earth. The swarm of giant colonist-carriers he recalled from Warspite’s first departure hadn't slowed at all; indeed, it had only grown more frantic. Hundreds of thousands of people were leaving the planet each month, hoping to set up a home somewhere well away from Earth. The human race would no longer have most of its eggs in one basket.

  And if we’d lost Earth, we would have lost the war, John thought, grimly. Most of our population and industrial base would be gone.

  He caught sight of one icon and frowned. The Indians had refused to join the British Commonwealth, when it had reasserted itself during the Age of Unrest, and they’d been held back by their determination to make their own way into space, but they were catching up now. INS Viraat was large enough to pass for an American fleet carrier, although her commissioning had been delayed when the Indians had obtained the formula for heavy ablative armour and coated her hull for additional protection. Not that John particularly blamed them, he had to admit. The Battle of New Russia had taught the human race that lightly-armoured carriers were nothing more than easy targets for the Tadpoles, who had casually wiped out seven such ships in the battle.

  She could almost pass for Theodore Smith, he thought, recalling the first of the post-war British carriers. She’d entered service only the previous year and was still working up, along with her two sisters. All she would need is more armour and more heavy weapons.

  He sighed, inwardly. Beyond her, there were hundreds of other warships, belonging to twenty different human powers. No one would take the risk of leaving Earth undefended, not after the bombardment; no one, not even the powers that refused to cooperate with their neighbours outside the Solar System, would ignore the Solar Treaty. If someone tried to challenge humanity over its homeworld, every spacefaring power would react ...

  And if we do have a clash with someone outside the Sol System, he thought, it won’t be allowed to spread here.

  “Captain,” Howard said. “All systems are functioning at acceptable levels.”

  “Good,” John said. He wouldn't be entirely happy until they’d jumped through the first alien-grade tramline - that had been when disaster had struck, months ago - but it was a relief to know that everything seemed to be working properly. Some problems only showed themselves when the ship was actually underway. “And the squadron?”

  “They don’t seem to be having any difficulty keeping up with us,” Howard said.

  Armstrong coughed. “We could move faster, sir.”

  John shook his head, even though he knew Armstrong couldn't see him. “I think we need to stick with them,” he said, dryly. “Keep an eye on the convoy and inform me if there are any problems.”

  “Yes, sir,” Howard said.

  “And remind the crew that we are approaching the Last Line,” John added. “If they want to send any messages home, they won’t have another chance for a few weeks.”

  “Yes, sir,” Howard said, again.

  John glanced at his display, then shrugged. There wasn’t anyone on Earth he cared to send a message to, not now. His parents had always disapproved of his career choice, while his sister had swallowed the wrong line of propaganda and assumed that John was responsible for killing hundreds of aliens. Given that they’d been trying to kill his men at the time - and killed or enslaved hundreds of thousands of their own kind - it wasn't something that would keep him up at night.

  Instead, he looked at the final set of intelligence reports from MI6. Hundreds of starships were on their way to Vesy, although - as most of them were incapable of using alien-grade tramlines - it was quite possible the squadron would beat most of them to the planet. At that point ... he cursed under his breath as he recalled his orders. He’d asked the First Space Lord for clarification, but the Admiral hadn't been able to give him any. There was too much risk of being unable to maintain the balance between the two political factions in the Royal Navy.

  Life was so much easier when we were fighting the war, John thought, morbidly. At least we knew who the enemy was, back then.

  “Captain,” Armstrong said. “We will make transit in ten minutes.”

  “Inform our guests,” John ordered.
It was rare for a Royal Naval crewman, at least one on active service, to have a bad reaction to the transit through the tramline, but sometimes a vulnerable civilian wouldn’t be noticed until they made the jump. “And tell the doctor to stand by, just in case.”

  He groaned, inwardly. As always, the ship’s doctor had been distressingly thorough when he’d poked and prodded at John, even though his sensors could have told him most of what he’d picked up by touch. John knew he wasn't the only crewman to dread physical exams - it seemed to be common throughout the Royal Navy - but there was no point in complaining. It was laid down in regulations and no one, not even the ship’s commander, was spared.

  “Aye, sir,” Howard said.

  The Ambassador has been out-system before, John thought. So has Professor Nordstrom - he was one of the researchers who went to Heinlein, where humans and Tadpoles are trying to live in harmony. But what about the others?

  He cursed under his breath. There simply hadn't been time to review all of the files.

  “Tramline in five minutes,” Armstrong reported.

  “Lieutenant Forbes, transmit all final messages in the buffer,” John ordered. Any other messages would be stored, at least until Warspite encountered a homeward-bound starship on her cruise. “Attach our final status report, then close communications.”

  “Aye, sir,” Gillian said.

  John forced himself to relax. It always felt nerve-wracking approaching a tramline, even one as well-known as the link between Earth and Terra Nova. He knew, intellectually, that there was no real chance of a collision, or a hostile force waiting on the far side, but emotionally it was hard to believe. He’d earned his wings just after the war began, after all, and both sides had tried to ambush the other as they’d jumped through the tramlines.

  “Tramline in one minute,” Armstrong said. A timer appeared on the display, counting down the seconds. “Transit in five ... four ... three ... two ... one ...”

  John braced himself. The universe dimmed, just for a second, then returned to normal. But the display had blanked out and was hastily reformatting itself as the ship’s sensors sucked in data from all over the Terra Nova system. Hundreds of icons flickered into existence, marked with warning messages that indicated that they might have changed position before the emissions from their drives reached Warspite. It might have been just his imagination, but it looked as though Terra Nova was seeing less organised activity these days. The miners might have decided to head to the newer colony worlds to try their luck there.

  It would be hard to blame them, he thought, coldly. Terra Nova had been a mistake from the start, when so many different groups were settled in close proximity and expected to get along; their feuding factions had only recently been taking their dispute into open space, as if they wanted to convince the interstellar powers to intervene. This isn't a safe place to live.

  “Transit complete,” Armstrong reported.

  I noticed, John thought. He didn't say it out loud. Regulations insisted that Armstrong had to make his report, even if it was easy to tell if the jump had completed or not. And nothing went wrong, this time.

  He keyed his console. “Engineering?”

  “Puller Drive is powering down, Captain,” Mike Johnston reported. He’d sounded more cheerful over the last two days. It had been so obvious that John had a quiet suspicion he'd gotten lucky on Nelson Base. “All power curves are nominal.”

  “Good,” John said.

  “I’d like to run a handful of additional tests, just to be sure,” Johnston added. “Do you mind ...?”

  “Not at all,” John said. After what had happened the last time they’d left Earth, he would happily have underwritten any number of tests while they were still in an inhabited star system. “We will make our next transit in” - he glanced at the display, running through the calculation in his head - “nine hours.”

  “Plenty of time,” Johnston said. “Engineering out.”

  John nodded, then looked at Howard. “Start running tracking exercises,” he ordered, flatly. “I want to know everything we can about everyone in the system by the time we leave.”

  “Aye, sir,” Howard said. It would be good practice for when they arrived at Vesy, they both knew. They’d have to watch for smugglers entering through the tramlines, as well as rogue miners and others who might try to stake a claim to the system. A human population within the Vesy System would cause no end of legal problems. “I’ll get the tactical crew right on it.”

  John nodded, then checked his inbox. They should have received an update from the Royal Navy’s guardship, but it was really too early to expect one. It would probably be at least four hours before one was transmitted, assuming the guardship even saw Warspite and her convoy arriving. Instead, he rose to his feet. There was no shortage of paperwork he had to do in his office, now they were on their way.

  “Commander Howard, you have the bridge,” he said. “Inform me once the guardship sends us the intelligence packet.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Howard said.

  John stepped through the hatch into his office, then shrugged off his jacket and sat down at the metal desk. He was mildly surprised he hadn't been urged to give up his cabin to the ambassador, even though it wasn't really much bigger than the VIP quarters, but it would have been inconvenient. The office might have been his, yet his XO and several other crewmen were expected to use it from time to time. Warspite simply didn't have the hull volume to give everyone an office.

  And I wouldn't trade you for a full-sized fleet carrier, he thought, rubbing the bulkhead affectionately. Not that he’d get a fleet carrier, unless he was very lucky. It had been sheer luck - and a certain amount of expendability - that had earned him Warspite. You’re far more nimble than any wallowing pig of a carrier.

  He tapped his terminal, snorted in annoyance as he realised there were several more requests for an interview from Penny Schneider, and then a message from the Ambassador. She wanted a meeting too, over dinner. John couldn't decide if she thought that food would make the ideas flow better, or if she reasoned she’d have a better chance of catching him if she asked him to dinner. She had to know he wouldn't have much free time.

  Sighing, he keyed out a reply to both women and then went to work.

  Chapter Eight

  “Tell me something,” Grace Scott said, as John stepped into the ambassador’s cabin. “Are your quarters any larger than this?”

  “Only by a couple of square meters,” John said, dryly. He’d met too many people like Grace Scott before, men and women who thought it was their job to be offended on their principal’s behalf. “Warspite is a cruiser, not a fleet carrier.”

  Grace looked unconvinced. “Then why didn't you assign the largest cabin to Ambassador Richardson?”

  John met her eyes and held them. “Because my cabin is right next to the bridge, where I need to be if there’s an emergency,” he said. “The VIP cabins are towards the rear of Officer Country because they aren’t required to do anything if we run into trouble.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Joelle Richardson said, as she emerged from the sleeping compartment. “I really have been in worse places, Captain.”

  “And you could be bedded down with the midshipmen,” John said, as she held out her hand for him to shake. “They have to sleep doubled-up because of your party.”

  Grace frowned. “Aren't they used to it?”

  “No,” John said, flatly.

  He gazed around the cabin. It was small, yet there were three compartments and just enough room to swing a cat. John was pretty sure his midshipmen would have been delighted to have such a cabin to themselves, particularly if they didn't get the duties that normally came with a private compartment. The bulkheads were bare, but there was no reason why the ambassador couldn't hang pictures on the metal or cover them with cloth or mirrors to give the impression that the cabin was larger than it seemed. Compared to the cabin he’d shared at the Academy, it was paradise incarnate.

&nbs
p; You could bring a person to your bunk and have fun, he thought, wryly. There would certainly be no need to negotiate with your bunkmates for some privacy.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering food for the three of us, Captain,” the ambassador said, as John sat at the small folding table. “And please call me Joelle.”

  “Call me John,” John said.

  Joelle smiled. “I read your service record,” she said, as Grace glanced into the next room and then sat down next to John. “I understand you saw service in the war?”