“Shit,” John said. “And our armour?”
“Improved, but still nowhere near as strong as I would like,” Johnston said. “I don’t think we will be able to stand up to a hit from a comparable plasma weapon.”
“Understood,” John said. “One final question, then. Are we likely to meet our departure date?”
“Almost certainly,” Johnston said. “Commander Watson is good at sorting out minor hiccups, as long as they don’t involve dealing with personnel. The real test, of course, will come when we jump through the tramline and see what happens.”
“Wonderful,” John said, sardonically. “Do you have any other concerns I should know?”
“Not as yet,” Johnston said. He smiled. “My complaints aside, sir, Warspite is a good little ship. Once we manage to sort out the teething problems, we should be fine.”
“I hope you’re right,” John said. “You will inform me if there are any problems with Commander Watson?”
“Yes, sir,” Johnston said, although he looked uncomfortable. Asking a junior officer to spy on a senior rarely ended well for anyone. “I would advise you to read through the official notes, but also the additions Commander Watson and I have been making. Trying to ensure that every change was documented wasn't an easy job either.”
“It never is,” John agreed. “I shall be hosting a dinner for the crew in two days, I think. You will be attending?”
“Of course I will, sir,” Johnston said. “Unless the ship blows up first, in which case I shall be eating dinner in heaven instead.”
John snorted. “Are there any other issues?”
“Some grumbling about reduced shore leave,” Johnston said. “The departure date was pushed up twice, sir. Crewmen who were planning holidays had to cancel them at short notice.”
“Odd,” John mused. “The First Space Lord only gave me the command a few hours ago.”
“They may have intended to give you more time to come to grips with the ship.” Johnston said. “Or maybe they’re just jerking us around for the hell of it.”
“Sounds plausible,” John said. “I’ll organise a couple of shuttle flights to Sin City II at the end of the week, I think. It will give the crew a chance to blow off some steam before the shit hits the fan.”
“Seems like a good idea,” Johnston said. “Mind you, I don't think Sin City II is quite as good as Sin City I.”
“But more moral,” John said. “And besides, half of the spacers won’t know the difference.”
He smiled at the thought. Sin City had been destroyed by the Tadpoles during their attack on Earth, earning them the undying hatred of almost every spacer in the system. The new Sin City was owned and operated by a consortium of the major spacefaring powers, taking advantage of the situation to close the loopholes that had allowed Sin City to exist. It still held beer, prostitutes and VR chambers, but most of the more problematic entertainments had been removed.
“True, I suppose,” Johnston said. “Did you have fun in Soho?”
“It’s not what it used to be,” John admitted. “Most of the bars are closed now, sadly. I think quite a few of the community moved out to an asteroid, where they will be safer from alien attacks.”
He shook his head as he recalled some of the times Colin and he had shared in Soho, then dismissed the memory. Colin was dead. There was no point in dwelling on a dead man.
“Safe is relative,” Johnston said. “I heard that several ships were sent out to establish a new human homeworld. How safe do you think they are?”
“Safer than here, I expect,” John said.
He smiled, then finished his tea. “Are you still dating Sofia?”
“She decided she preferred to stay with a pretty boy from Luna One,” Johnston said, without heat. “I can live without her.”
“Quite right,” John said. “We’ll speak later, I think.”
Johnston nodded, then rose to his feet, saluted and walked out the compartment. John watched him go, then looked around his cabin-office. It was larger than the space he’d been assigned on his last shipboard berth, although that was saying nothing. HMS Spartan had been a frigate, with most of her hull volume occupied by engines and weapons. The crew had had barely enough room to swing a cat. Warspite was over three times her size, yet even the CO got little more than an office, a bedroom and a tiny washroom. The only decoration was an oil painting of HMS Warspite, the superdreadnaught that had served in the Second World War, firing her guns towards an unseen threat. But, on the plus side, his cabin was right next to the bridge.
Midshipwoman Powell tapped on the hatch, then opened it and peered in. “Would you like some more tea, sir?”
“Yes, please,” John said. “And a ration bar or two, if you could manage it.”
He chewed on the bar as he opened his terminal and started to read through the endless series of notes, incident reports and screeds written by various designers to the Admiralty. John had never actually served in the Admiralty, but he’d been an XO long enough to understand when several Admirals were actually fighting a private war over funding, pet projects and - at base - their vision of the Royal Navy’s future. Commander Watson might have no inkling of the titanic power struggles her superior had been fighting, but that hadn't stopped her being at the centre of one of them. No wonder she had been left in a slot she was manifestly unsuited to handle ... and no wonder the First Space Lord, sensing trouble, had arranged for Warspite to receive a commanding officer who wouldn't make a fuss, just quietly handle her XO duties as well as his own.
“I need a bloody secretary,” he muttered. Paperwork was normally the XO’s responsibility, although the Captain had a fair share of it himself. “And possibly a stiff drink.”
Cursing under his breath, he checked the personnel files. Lieutenant-Commander Paul Howard had a good record, although he’d been a Midshipman during the war and only been promoted in its aftermath. Unfortunately, the tactical department would require his full attention, so he couldn't be given some of Commander Watson’s duties and a promise of early promotion. He briefly considered letting some of the paperwork slide, but he knew it would only cause more trouble later on. The bureaucrats would whinge and moan and complain loudly to their superiors, who would demand explanations from John and his crew.
You haven’t filled out Form 644, Paragraph 7, he thought, ruefully. What is your explanation for this?
I was bored, his own thoughts answered him. Should I report for execution now or later?
His console chimed. “Captain, this is Hemminge in Communications,” a voice said. “The First Space Lord is calling you on a priority link.”
“Put him through,” John ordered.
He turned his attention to his terminal, as the First Space Lord’s face appeared in front of him.
“Admiral,” he said, neutrally.
“Captain,” Admiral Finnegan said. “I trust you are impressed with your new command?”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” John said, biting down several responses that came to mind, all of which would probably have earned him a court martial. “I may be requesting additional personnel, sir, but I can handle the ship.”
“That’s good to hear,” Admiral Finnegan said. “The other ships in your squadron are being assigned now. I shall expect you to meet with their commanding officers once the formation is assembled.”
“Yes, sir,” John said, wondering just when he was meant to do it. He wasn't sure he trusted Commander Watson to handle the ship in his absence. “Sir, with all due respect, I do wonder at some of the personal assignments that have already been made.”
“Politics,” Admiral Finnegan said, bluntly. “You’ll just have to live with it, Captain. I don't have much room to manoeuvre.”
John sighed, wondering if Johnston and the First Space Lord had coordinated their conversations. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I can handle the ship.”
“That’s good to hear,” Admiral Finnegan said. “And, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry fo
r the problems you’re going to face.”
His image vanished. John scowled at the console, then turned back to his datapad and hunted for a particular set of personnel files. When they popped up in front of him, he was gratified to see that two of his first choices had not been assigned anywhere outside the personnel pool. They were on leave at the moment, but the Royal Navy could recall anyone who wasn't actually retired, if it saw fit. John keyed in a request to the Personnel Office, requesting that one of his two selections be recalled and reassigned to Warspite, then rose to his feet and stalked out onto the bridge. Two officers were bent over the tactical console, running an exercise. They turned around, then jumped to attention when they saw him.
“Captain,” one of them said. “I’m Lieutenant-Commander Howard. Welcome onboard.”
John looked him up and down, then nodded in approval. Howard looked like a naval officer; he didn't have a single button out of place, while he wore two service pips and a campaign ribbon on his jacket. His short brown hair was cut close to his scalp, like most spacers chose to wear their hair. Long hair just got in the way on a starship.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said. “What sort of exercise are you running?”
“Us against an alien battlecruiser,” Howard explained. “We might actually have an advantage, but there are tactical problems in bringing the heavy plasma cannon to bear on any target.”
“We actually have to line up the whole ship to take aim,” John noted. “And just powering up the cannon sends out telltale bursts of radiation.”
“It does,” Howard confirmed. “So far, the only tactical doctrine we have for using it, sir, involves not powering the cannon up until we’re already engaging the enemy. But that takes half of our firepower off the board before we've even started the fight. The enemy might notice our weakness and close with us.”
“So we could only use it to get the first shot if we weren’t trying to hide,” John said. He sat down in the command chair and keyed a switch, bringing up the tactical display. “And if we were trying to sneak up on someone, our first broadside would be lame.”
“Yes, sir,” Howard said.
John frowned. It was starting to look as though Warspite could either beat or outrun anything else in space. The plasma cannon was a great idea, in theory, yet Howard and Johnston had already outlined some of the problems of using it in real life. On the other hand, there were some definite possibilities ...
“We could still use it,” he said. One idea had already occurred to him. “Set up the tactical simulators for 1900, Mr. Howard. We’ll start playing through some possibilities tonight.”
“Aye, sir,” Howard said.
John rose, then walked out of the hatch and through the ship, inspecting each and every compartment. Most of them looked unfinished, although it was clear that all of the essential gear had already been installed and that Warspite shouldn't have any problems in meeting her scheduled departure date. The real problem lay in the fact that most of the crew were inexperienced, despite the recent war. But he was starting to get the impression that using crewmen who had served on more conventional starships to crew Warspite was asking for trouble.
“Doctor Thomas Stewart,” a grim-faced man said, when he entered sickbay. “I hope I will be seeing you soon for your physical.”
John groaned. “I think you add half the steps to torture people,” he said. It was evident he wasn't going to be developing a personal relationship with his ship’s doctor. “And I did have a physical before I returned to Earth.”
“Never trust doctors who just want to verify you can return to Earth,” the doctor said, firmly. “I shall expect to see you here before we depart, sir.”
“As you wish,” John said, with a sigh. “Any problems in your department?”
“Half my staff hasn't arrived, but other than that everything is fine,” Stewart said. “A couple of crewmen tried to malinger, so I sent them back to duty with a few well-chosen words and threats. If you’re trying to fake an illness, you might as well do something that isn't easily verifiable.”
John frowned. “Is that a major problem?”
“It certainly wasn't during the war,” Stewart said. “I blame it on all the enhanced training programs we had after New Russia fell. Lots of spacers out there who never had the full battery of tests, let alone the exhaustive training program we put together after years of experience. Some of them really don’t want to be here, but don’t want to join a reconstruction battalion either.”
Or maybe it’s a form of protest, John thought. Not, in the end, that it would have made any difference. Military personnel weren't allowed to strike. It will have to be dealt with.
“Thank you, doctor,” he said, out loud. “I’m sure things will get better once we’re on a proper training and exercise roster.”
Chapter Five
It had been years since Percy had last visited Turnstile - Edinburgh - Spaceport. It had been important then, as one of the gateways to the stars, but it had only expanded rapidly since the war. Hundreds of thousands of people, emigrants heading to Britannia or one of the other settled worlds, waited patiently for the shuttles that would take them to the orbiting colonist-carriers, while work crews struggled desperately to expand the facilities to cope with the growing exodus. Thousands of cars and other vehicles were parked outside and abandoned, being sifted through and towed away by reclamation squads. Their former owners no longer needed them.
He showed his ID card at the desk, passed through a biometric screening and was then pointed into the military waiting compartment. In stark contrast to the civilian departure lounges, it was almost empty; the handful of personnel chatting quietly to one another or trying to catch up on much-needed sleep. Percy checked his terminal and noted the shuttle’s departure time, then sat down on a chair and closed his eyes. He’d spent too long making love to his girlfriend, he noted ruefully as sleep overcame him, instead of catching up with his rest. But then, it was unlikely there would be any chance to make love on Warspite.
It felt like bare seconds before someone shook him, gently. Percy snapped awake, one hand grabbing for the concealed pistol, before he remembered where and when he was. An older man was standing next to him, peering down at him with concerned grey eyes. Percy couldn't help being reminded of his father, even though his father had never looked so ... dignified. There was something about the newcomer that practically shouted father.
“The shuttle is loading now, Corporal,” the newcomer said. “You and I are the only passengers, I’m afraid.”
Percy stood and grabbed his duffle. “Coming, sir,” he said. The newcomer wasn't wearing any rank insignia, but he had an air of authority that pervaded his voice. “You’re assigned to Warspite too?”
“Damned strange thing,” the newcomer said. “One moment, I’m on leave; the next, someone calls me and tells me to get my ass up to Warspite pretty damn quick. And to think I thought I wouldn't be flying more than a desk for the foreseeable future.”
He turned and strode towards the departure gate. Percy followed him, noting absently that several of the soldiers had gone, while others had taken their place. Perhaps there had been a slew of reassignments, he told himself, as they walked onto the tarmac. The military only seemed efficient when compared to civilian life. One officer falling sick at the wrong time could throw the entire schedule out of whack.
“I’m Philip,” the newcomer said. He had to shout to be heard over the sound of a shuttle taking off and vanishing into the overcast sky. “Philip Richards.”
“Percy Schneider,” Percy said. “Yes, he was my father, thank you for asking.”
“There are worse fathers to have,” Richards said. He didn't seem impressed at all, much to Percy’s relief. “Mine wanted me to become a corporate rumour-monger and marry into aristocracy. Then he overdosed on something and died horribly. Or so I was told.”
A young female MP, standing outside the shuttle, checked their ID cards and then waved them into the
boxy craft. Percy wasn't surprised to discover that half of the seats had been taken out, nor that the space cleared by removing the seats had been filled with storage pallets, all destined for Warspite. The military would hardly have wasted a shuttle flight on the pair of them, even if they did have to get to their destination as swiftly as possible. Someone had probably noted that the shuttle was available to carry supplies and promptly delivered the supplies to the spaceport.
“Pick a seat, any seat,” Richards said. “I don’t think there’s much choice.”
“And not much chance of a hot stewardess either,” Percy said, as he stuffed his duffle into an overhead compartment, then sat down beside the porthole. As always, the seat was at least one size too small. “Why were you assigned to Warspite?”
“Good question,” Richards said. “And I would be much happier if I knew the answer.”
Percy raised his eyebrows. “You don't know?”
[Ark Royal 04] - Warspite Page 5