“They’re a fine group of men,” Wing Commander Marc Savage said. “They might be rowdy, sir, but they’ll do their damned jobs.”
“Glad to hear it,” Alan said. Savage was competent - that wasn’t in doubt - but his disciplinary record was poor. He’d gone up and down the ranks as many times as a whore’s knickers. If his stats hadn't been so good he would probably have been discharged long ago. “That said, I wasn't kidding about no drink or drugs. Make sure your pilots understand it.”
“They’re only human,” Savage pointed out. “A man who won’t drink won’t fight.”
Alan looked back at him, evenly. Savage had a certain rough charisma, the kind of man who’d be happy in a fight and sullenly resentful out of it. Maybe not the sort of guy the navy would want to put on a recruitment poster either, but someone the navy would find useful as long as his violent streak was pointed in the right direction. They tended to cause problems on shore leave because they were bored.
“And a drunkard on deck risks the lives of his fellow crewmen,” he said. “I expect you to make it clear that there will consequences for anything of the sort.”
“Better shut down the still,” Whitehead said. “Someone will be making rotgut, sir.”
“I know,” Alan said. “And when we catch them, they’ll wish they’d never been born.”
“They’re civilians, sir,” Savage said. “I don’t think we can take them round the back and give them a beasting.”
Alan shrugged. Abigail had assured him that her crewers wouldn't start brewing alcohol for themselves. That left the military personnel. He’d already read the support staff the Riot Act, but Whitehead was probably right. Someone would start fermenting alcohol for themselves pretty soon. It was an old tradition, one that senior officers normally chose to ignore as long as it didn't impair performance. But Haddock’s crew wasn't large enough to compensate for a crewman who’d managed to impair his performance.
“We’ll see,” he said. “Any other concerns?”
“I dare say some will manifest when we start drilling in earnest,” Whitehead said. Beside him, Savage nodded in agreement. “They know what they’re doing, but they also have problems.”
“And there’s a war on,” Savage said. He sounded oddly cheerful. “The prospect of getting out there, of getting stuck into the enemy ... it’ll put fire in their bellies.”
Alan shrugged. There had been disputes between America and China - and scrabbles over a handful of newly-discovered systems and tramlines - but the Great Powers had worked hard to avoid a general war. The Royal Navy’s starfighter pilots hadn't seen action, real action, outside a handful of exercises and simulated drills. Now ... now there actually was a war to fight. They’d soon find out just how effective their drills had actually been.
“We shall see,” he said. He glanced at his wristcom, then rose. “We’ll go check the quarters now, I think.”
“But dawdle along the way,” Savage said.
Alan shot him a sidelong glance. “I hope you haven’t brought anything I’d have to throw out,” he said. “You are meant to set a good example.”
Bennett followed them as they walked out of the room, his presence a silent reminder that Alan was under constant supervision. Alan tried to forget him as they made their way down the corridor and into the first set of quarters, where six pilots were waiting for them. Bags were resting on bunks, already open. A sealed box, marked for transfer to Tallyman, rested on the floor. Alan nodded in approval, then turned a blind eye. Hopefully, the pilots wouldn't be foolish enough not to actually send the box off the ship. He couldn’t turn a blind eye to that.
The pilots didn't have much, not when space was so tight. Alan inspected their bags anyway, noting the uniformity. The navy had issued them with everything from basic uniforms and overalls to underwear and medical supplies. Alan made a mental note to check that everyone’s medical records were up to date - Haddock didn't have a proper sickbay, with a doctor who’d force the crew to undergo regular checks - as he moved from bag to bag. The pilots had definitely done a good job of removing anything illicit.
Unless they didn't have anything illicit in the first place, he thought. But that’s about as likely as me passing SAS Selection.
“Very good,” he said, when he’d finished. The only item that had been remotely out of place was a pair of lacy panties, owned by Greene. Alan had been careful not to ask. He was pretty sure he didn't want to know. “And now you can all relax until we start the first set of exercises.”
Bennett nudged him as they left the compartment. “Men and women sleeping together?”
“They’re not men and women,” Whitehead said. “They’re starfighter pilots.”
Savage put on a mock-falsetto. “Wing Commander, is it alright to sleep with a fellow pilot? Why yes, yes it is ... except you young pilots don’t want to sleep.”
“No, they don’t,” Alan said. He wasn't too concerned. Mixed wardrooms were a fact of naval life. And besides, it was against regulations for starfighter pilots to sleep together ... at least when their fellows might catch them. Anyone who wanted to have an illicit affair would be better off waiting until they could go on shore leave. “It should be fine.”
Bennett didn't look impressed. “And when it isn't?”
“Then we deal with it,” Alan said. The army did not have mixed barracks. It was actually quite rare for women to serve in the combat arms. “They’re grown men and women.”
“They’re starfighter pilots,” Whitehead said.
“They’ll be fine once we actually start drilling,” Savage said. “And we’ll start doing that in an hour.”
Chapter Nine
“Our orders seem to keep changing,” Abigail said. She sat in her cabin, reclining on the bed while Alan sat on the single chair. “Yesterday, we were going to Picard; today, we’re going to New Russia.”
“The diplomats are trying to smooth out the politics, now the entire world knows what’s happening,” Alan said. He took a sip of his tea. “The Great Powers have never had to work together before.”
Abigail nodded. The news had leaked three days ago - followed rapidly by a formal announcement - and, so far, the groundpounders had confirmed every negative stereotype the belters held about them. Riots in the streets, panic-buying ... anyone would think that a moon-sized starship had suddenly materialised in the night sky. The more thoughtful commenters had pointed out that the aliens were still dozens of light years away, but the effect had been undermined by a couple of smartasses on the datanet pointing out what the time delay actually meant. It was quite possible that the aliens were closer than they knew.
Not that the belt is doing much better, she conceded, ruefully. Entire settlements had gone dark, trying to hide from prowling alien starships. We thought we might have to fight the groundpounders one day. Instead, we’re allied with them against a far greater foe.
“We’re due to depart in two days,” she said. “Or has our departure date been put back again?”
“I’m planning on the assumption that we will be leaving on schedule,” Alan said. “We might be delayed, again, but ...”
He shrugged. Abigail wondered how he could be so calm. On one hand, she was accustomed to schedule slips; on the other, these delays were caused by some idiot groundpounder who apparently thought he could move starships around like pieces on a chessboard. It was maddening to realise that her authority had been expanded in some ways, but circumscribed in others. And that she had to answer to a bureaucracy. She’d had to write more reports, over the last couple of weeks, than she’d had to write in the last ten years of her captaincy. It was frustrating as hell to know that some requests would be met without question, but others would require detailed requests before some timeserver stamped APPROVED on them.
She met his eyes. “How do you handle it?”
“The delays?” Alan considered her question for a long moment. “They’re part of military life, really. You get used to them.”
“It isn't very efficient,” Abigail pointed out, dryly. “I’d be in deep shit if I was that inefficient.”
“We’re not quite at the bottom of the supply chain, but we’re almost there,” Alan said. “I’m not sure if we’re above or below Ark Royal. They’ll be more concerned with getting the fleet carriers and their escorts ready for action than us.”
“Ouch,” Abigail said. She leaned forward. “And the politics? Was there any update?”
“Nothing, really,” Alan said. “On one hand, we’re all one big happy family; on the other, that family is scrabbling like ... a scrabbling family. We’re supposed to be allies with the other spacefaring powers, but no one has managed to sort out a chain of command yet. Which is awkward, as we’ll be heading to New Russia unless someone changes our orders yet again.”
Abigail nodded, slowly. The naval beancounters didn't seem to believe that she deserved detailed updates, but she was an old hand at reading between the lines. New Russia was the largest human colony between Vera Cruz and Earth, the logical place for the Multinational Fleet to assemble. The aliens would have to punch their way through New Russia if they wanted to drive on Earth ... assuming, of course, that they knew anything about the human sphere’s astrography. There was no way to be sure what they knew - or didn't know. All the reports agreed that they could have captured navigation charts on Vera Cruz, but no one knew if they had.
And some talking head was screaming about information security on the datanet, she thought, remembering the updates her family had forwarded to her. They’ll make life harder for everyone else, now they’re locking the stable doors after the horse has bolted.
She leaned back on the bed and picked up her mug. It was empty.
“What do you think will happen?” She asked, as she started to search for something else to drink. “I mean ... who’ll be in command?”
“I think they won’t care that much about a lowly escort carrier,” Alan said, thoughtfully. “A fleet carrier? Sure, they’d care about a fleet carrier. But us? I don’t know.”
“A fleet has to have an unquestioned chain of command,” Abigail said. Her fingers found the bottle she was searching for and pulled it out. “Pass over your mug. I think you need something a little stronger.”
Alan looked doubtful. “I made my pilots send their alcohol back to the asteroid,” he said. “I really shouldn't be drinking ...”
“You’re off-duty,” Abigail reminded him. “Please. I insist.”
She kept her face impassive as he wrestled with his conscience. She’d looked him up in the shipboard records, but found nothing. Whatever Alan had done hadn't been considered important enough to add to the onboard encyclopaedia. She was reluctant to try to ask through the datanet, if only because all messages and search requests still went through the censors on the asteroid. Someone might object to her trying to find out what her XO had actually done to get himself thrown in jail.
And I need to know before we leave, she told herself. Normally, she would have respected someone’s privacy, but matters were far from normal. Even if it does mean trying to get him drunk enough to loosen his tongue.
Alan surrendered and held out his mug. Abigail splashed a generous helping into his mug, then filled her own. Her alcohol tolerance was pretty high - she’d had all kinds of minor improvements spliced into her genome - but she reminded herself to be careful anyway. She was too old to go to a bar, get extremely drunk and wake up the following morning in a stranger’s bed. Her parents hadn't been particularly sympathetic when she’d been nursing hangovers either.
“Cheers,” Alan said. He took a swig - and choked. “What the hell is this stuff? Paint stripper?”
“Genuine Firewater, from Ceres,” Abigail said. “I was told that naval types could hold their beer.”
“This isn't beer,” Alan said. “This is ... this is ...”
He took another swig. “I suppose it grows on you.”
“It does,” Abigail agreed. “You just have to drink enough of it.”
She took a sip herself, wincing slightly as it burned her throat. No one bought Firewater for the taste. Back when she’d been young, it had been considered the height of manliness to drink a whole bottle without pausing to take a breath. In hindsight, they’d all been very lucky not to die of alcohol poisoning. Or be shunned for putting everyone else in danger. Belters didn't care if someone drank themselves silly every night, but they’d take immediate steps if the drunkard tried to pilot a shuttlecraft while drunk.
We were silly bastards and bitches back then, she thought, ruefully. Out on leave, away from our parents and commanders ... we wanted fun and we didn't care about the price.
She watched Alan drink, torn between amusement and a peculiar kind of guilt. Alan had been cooling his heels in jail, not sunning himself on a beach. The Firewater was probably the first alcohol he’d had for five years, perhaps longer. And he was gulping it down as though it truly was water. It wouldn't be long before he was completely blotto.
He isn't going to thank me for this, she told herself. The hangover alone will feel like an elephant stamping on his skull.
She told herself, firmly, that it was necessary. She needed to know what he’d done. And yet ... she kicked herself, mentally. She was the commanding officer of a starship, not some random stranger. Duty came before anything else, even morality. If she was prepared to pass judgment on a member of her crew, she was sure as hell prepared to get someone drunk so she could get some answers. And yet ...
“I think you’ve had enough,” she said, as she filled his mug again. “I drank too much when I was a young woman.”
“So did I,” Alan said, woozily. “I smuggled two bottles of beer into the dorm when I was in school. The headmaster found out, too late. We’d already drunk the beer.”
“Oh dear,” Abigail said. She felt her lips thinning in disapproval. How old had Alan been when he’d smuggled beer into his school? Groundpounders kept children in school until they were sixteen, at least. They didn't seem to understand the value of a practical education. Or the importance of allowing a child to grow up in a house filled with love. “I hope you didn't do it when you were older.”
“I feel like a heel,” Alan said. His voice steadied, just for a second. “I tell my pilots not to pull the dumb shit I pulled when I was a pilot. Do you have any idea how much dumb shit I pulled when I was a pilot?”
“I pulled a lot of dumb shit when I was a crewwoman,” Abigail said. She wanted to encourage him to talk. “I was lucky my uncle didn't just throw me out of the airlock. If I hadn't been family ...”
“Family,” Alan said. “You can't trust family, you know.”
Abigail frowned. “They’re all I can trust,” she said. “Who else would I trust?”
“That's what I thought,” Alan said. He swallowed the rest of his drink, then coughed so violently that she thought he was going to throw up. “Family. Who can you trust, but family? And then the bitch cheated on me.”
“The bitch?”
“My wife,” Alan said. He put the mug down. “She cheated on me.”
Abigail studied him for a long moment. She’d heard of the concept of adultery, but it wasn't something the belt took particularly seriously. Group-marriages were the norm, after all. She wouldn't fault her husbands or wives if they wanted to have a fling outside the group, or if they wanted to bring in someone new. It wasn't as if she could be with her partners 24/7 ...
“There I was, working my butt off to ensure a stable income for her and the kids, while she was fucking the neighbour! That arsehole was a friend, I thought. Who knew he was bonking my wife? I didn't know ...”
The words came tumbling out. “I thought she loved me. I thought she supported my career. And then I walk in on her being fucked by the fucker ... by that fucker Slater. And ... and I killed her.”
Abigail recoiled in shock. She knew that some group-marriages had broken down spectacularly, normally because some of the partners were too immature to ma
ke the relationship work, but she’d never heard of one that ended in murder. It was horrific! The mere thought was disgusting. She’d had disagreements with her partners - everyone had - but she would never kill them. The worst that could happen was an acrimonious division of the family’s wealth and permanent separation.
They put a murderer on my ship, she thought, numbly. And not just any murderer either.
She would have been happier, she thought, if Alan had murdered a random stranger. Or perhaps not ... she could see the navy’s logic, even if she didn’t like it. Alan had killed once, under conditions that were unlikely to reoccur. But to her, Alan had committed an unspeakable betrayal. He’d turned against his own family.
The Cruel Stars (Ark Royal Book 11) Page 9