“Yeah,” Mason agreed. “It would probably get us into very deep shit.”
He tossed back his drink, then placed the glass on the table. “I think we can make it, Captain, but we’re going to be pressed for crew. I’ve got an application in for additional crewmen, yet ... from what I’m hearing through the grapevine, there aren't many crewmen left who can be diverted to Vanguard. Right now, the Admiralty is hard-pressed to keep up with demand. I suspect that reservists are being mobilised, but ... well it will be weeks before they’re ready to take up positions and we’ll be gone well before then. The only good news is that we should have an almost complete roster of midshipmen, when they actually arrive, but most of them are either green or have very limited experience.”
“They’ll have to be tossed in at the deep end,” Susan said. She sighed. There was no shortage of ways for greenie midshipmen to screw up and, without proper supervision, there was a good chance that one of those ways would be disastrous. “Make sure you keep a close eye on them - ask Lieutenant Fraser to do the same.”
“The First Middy won’t like that,” Mason reminded her. “She’s supposed to be supreme within the wardroom.”
“It will just have to be endured,” Susan said, crossly. “And you can make that point to her, if necessary.
She ran her hand through her dark hair, knowing it wouldn't be easy. Traditionally, what happened in Middy Country stayed in Middy Country, at least unless it got far out of hand. If the First Middy couldn't keep control - or appeared to be leaning too much on her superior officers - it could cost her any chance of promotion. It was a delicate balancing act and too many promising young officers had fallen off.
“As you wish, Captain,” Mason said. He pulled a small datapad from his belt. “As you can see” - he passed the datapad to Susan - “we are within five days of being ready to depart. I think we could leave now, if necessary, but I would prefer to avoid combat in that case. And in any case, we’re going to have a great deal of work to do while we’re in transit.”
“Joy,” Susan said. She wanted to get back out into deep space, where she didn't have to worry about desk-bound officers peering over her shoulder, but if any problems developed it would be better to handle them near a shipyard. “Did you run a full shakedown test?”
“Levels one and two,” Mason said. “I decided to leave the level three test for a couple more days. We should have everything in place to make it successful by then.”
“Very good,” Susan said. “And we’ll have three days to fix anything that goes badly wrong.”
She glanced at the datapad, running her eye down the list of neat little reports. Her ship wasn't quite ready to depart, but she was close enough. The storage compartments were being filled with spare parts and additional ammunition, as well as ...
“Paul,” she said, holding out the datapad. “What’s this?”
“Supplies for a portable biological research chamber,” Mason said. He didn't seem surprised that she’d noticed it. “Or, put a little more bluntly, a prison cell for any alien captives.”
Susan stared at him. “On my ship?”
“In theory, the research team - which is headed by Prince Henry, by the way - will be transferring to a support ship once we reach the front,” Mason told her. “In practice, we may be keeping them for longer.”
“Wonderful,” Susan said. She had nothing against Prince Henry - he’d insisted he was nothing more than an Ambassador - but she didn't like the idea of untrained civilians on her ship. “What happened to the researchers from Tadpole Prime?”
“I don’t know,” Mason said. “But they won’t be coming with us.”
Susan rubbed her forehead. “Are there any more surprises?”
“Apparently, there will be a formal briefing once we reach the RV point,” Mason said. “I imagine they’re saving the nasty surprises until then.”
“Quite,” Susan agreed. “It is the sort of thing they tend to do.”
She scanned the rest of the datapad, then looked back at him. “I’m going to call my father, if we’re close enough for a direct conversation,” she said. “And then I’ll meet you on the bridge for the formal assumption of command. And then we will go over the ship in cynical detail.”
Mason nodded. “Make sure your father knows you’re safe,” he said. “I was quite worried he’d start pressuring his MP.”
Susan sighed. Maybe he had started pressuring his local MP. No one took democracy - and freedom - more seriously than a man who had fought and bled to preserve it. She had no idea just what had happened, over the last month; she doubted she would ever know. But at least it had worked in her favour. She had command of a warship, her actions had been officially approved ... as far as anyone outside the charmed circle knew, she’d done nothing even remotely wrong. But it would remain in her file for the rest of her life.
“I’ll ask him,” she said, reluctantly. “I’ll see you on the bridge.”
Mason nodded and left the compartment, the hatch hissing closed behind her. Susan sighed and tapped her console, requesting a direct link to the planetary surface. There was a good chance she wouldn’t get it - the military communications network was presumably very busy - but it was worth a try. And luck was with her. Five minutes later, her father’s face appeared in the terminal. He looked older than she recalled, his face carved with new lines that worried her. He’d clearly been very worried about her.
“Father,” she said, feeling another lump in her throat. “I’m fine.”
“Susan,” her father said, gruffly. “What happened?”
“It’s a long story,” she said, tapping her ears to indicate that they might be overheard. If the Admiralty had doubts about her, they might just be listening to the call. “But I’m fine now.”
Her father looked at her for a long moment - the same look, she realised with a shock, he’d given her when she’d asked his blessing to apply to the Academy. He'd known she was an adult, he'd known she was responsible ... and yet, she was still his little girl.
“I hope you’re right,” he said, finally. He trusted her, she knew. He might have his doubts - and his fears for her - but he trusted her. “Now, who’s been feeding you and why haven’t they done a good job of it?”
Susan sighed and settled in for the long haul.
Chapter Five
Mars, Midshipwoman Georgina Fitzwilliam thought, was meant to be red.
And it was red, she knew, outside the dome. Outside the areas that had been steadily - and ruthlessly - terraformed into a new home for the human race. There were no Martians to object, no native life to be displaced ... the humans who might have objected, once upon a time, had bowed to the harsh truth that the human race had only one true homeworld in the entire galaxy. And even after the tramlines had been discovered, the terraforming project had continued, combining genetically-engineered plants with asteroid water and a giant orbital mirror to heat the planet.
And there are even humans who are adapted to live on the surface, she thought, as she stared up at the dome. They’re the real natives now.
She smiled to herself as the fake sunlight beat down on her nude body. It couldn't pass for the Maldives, where she'd spent a couple of happy summers during vacation from school, but it was close enough. Water - warm water - washed against a sandy beach, framed by palm trees and illuminated by sunlamps bright enough to give her a tan. It looked like a piece of heaven, removed from its rightful place and embedded in the red dust of Mars. And, best of all, no one knew who she was. To the resort staff, she was just another midshipwomen splurging on a fancy holiday before returning to her ship.
And we will have to go back soon, she thought, as she sat upright. We can’t stay here forever.
The thought made her scowl as she peered out over the fake ocean. A couple of young men were swimming through the water, both ignoring her presence. Mars, surprisingly, had a more hedonistic population than Earth, although perhaps that was no surprise. The early colonists had all
been nationalistic, part of a rush to claim as much of the planetary surface as possible, but the later colonies had a more independent bent. And several of them were even giant experiments in alternate living. She’d even heard that one of them was a solely nudist colony. Visitors left their clothes - and their dignity - at the airlock. She’d been tempted to visit, but apparently they were very careful about just who they allowed through the doors.
“George,” a voice called. She turned, just in time to see Peter Barton striding towards her, carrying a pair of fancy drinks. The resort couldn't match the aristocratic parties she’d been forced to attend - some of her elder relatives preferred to get drunk as quickly as possible, just to make the time go swiftly - but at least it was trying. “They’re trying to up the price again.”
“I’m not surprised,” George said. She looked him up and down, openly admiring his unclad body. Peter Barton couldn't match an aristocratic fop for sheer handsomeness - they normally had a little plastic surgery when they turned eighteen - but there was a crudeness about his muscular body that she found attractive. “You did tell them we had a deal?”
“They’re probably regretting it now,” Barton said. He passed her the drink, then sat down next to her. “I’m sure they expected more from their heroes.”
George shrugged. She’d heard - through the grapevine - that she’d been marked down for a medal, along with several of the other officers and crew on Vanguard, but she hadn’t heard anything else before she’d joined Barton for a joint leave. The Admiralty wasn't normally so slow about recognising bravery and awarding medals, according to her uncle. She was tempted to write to him and ask what had happened, but she knew better. Her uncle would not be pleased and her father would be furious.
Either be the best officer you can be, she told herself as she sipped her drink, or resign yourself to a lifetime trapped in a gilded cage.
“They probably thought we could be talked out of requesting privacy,” she said, finally. “I’m not going to budge on that, Peter.”
“Me neither,” Barton agreed. “They’ll probably hit us with another bill as soon as we try to check out.”
George shrugged. She had an expense account - if she wished to use it - with a credit limit that would allow her to buy a new shuttlecraft, if she didn't mind her family looking over her shoulder. Her naval account was separate, private; they wouldn't know what she chose to spend her wages on. Or so she hoped. Naval accounts were supposed to be secure, at least without a court order, but she doubted that an accountant would deny the First Space Lord a glimpse at his niece’s accounts, if he thought to ask.
“We paid what they demanded in advance,” she reminded him, dryly. “They don't have a right to anything else.”
She glanced at him, watching as his gaze wandered over the ocean. He wasn't what her family wanted for her, not when he was just a Gunnery Officer. And as much as she’d enjoyed what they’d been doing together over the past few days, she knew better than to think they had anything permanent. Their affair would be a minor scandal, on Mars, but on Vanguard it would be a gross breach of regulations. She knew, all too well, just what her uncle would have to say about it, if they were caught in a privacy tube. She’d be lucky if she was allowed to resign without a major fuss.
The swimmers were making their way back to their encampment, followed by a pair of equally nude women. George wondered, idly, if they were their lovers or merely resort staff, eager to make sure their guests were catered to in every way. She hadn't been able to believe the number of options on the menu, even if they were all technically legal on Mars. But then, given the amount of money visitors splashed around, she could understand why the staff went out of their way to please. A single bad report could be disastrous.
She watched as the young men scrambled out of the water, feeling oddly unconcerned about their nakedness - or hers. Nudity was nothing special, she supposed, when everyone was nude. Even the staff wore nothing but their birthday suits. The two girls followed the men out of the water, their bodies glistening under the sunlight. They were so perfect that she couldn't help thinking that they too had had a little plastic surgery. And their contracts presumably prevented them from putting on weight.
“There’re no distractions here,” Barton said, quietly. “No worries, no concerns ...”
“Until the money runs out,” George said. She scowled. Just because she had a trust fund didn't mean she had to abuse it. “And we go back to the ship.”
She leaned back, feeling the sunlight grow hotter. She’d been worked to the bone, along with the other midshipmen, over the last three weeks. And then they’d been reassigned, leaving her as the only middy. It had been nice to have Middy Country to herself for a week, but there had been something unnatural about sleeping on her own. And yet, if she’d mentioned that to anyone, they would have called for the men in white coats to take her away. Privacy and solitude were so rare for midshipmen that every last fragment of them was precious.
“You’re thinking,” Barton accused, mischievously. “I can tell.”
“I’m surprised you can recognise the symptoms,” George said. “Do you actually do any thinking at all.”
“I let my little head do all the thinking for me,” Barton said. He sat upright, then brought his lips to hers for a long kiss. “And right now, there’s nothing else to do.”
George smiled as she opened her legs, allowing him to slip gently into her. She hadn't been a virgin when she’d boarded Vanguard - she hoped, desperately, that her family didn't know anything about her last few days at Hanover Towers - but Barton had been her first serious partner. The things he did to her made her body purr, even though she knew there could never be anything permanent between them. She leaned back as he thrust deeper, gasping as his hands played over her breasts. And then she was lost in the sensation ...
Afterwards, they showered under the waterfall before walking along the beach to the cafe, holding hands. A handful of other couples were sitting there, as naked as the two of them; they took a seat and ordered dinner, then held hands as they waited. The food was very good, she’d discovered, even though much of the meat was vat-grown rather than imported from Earth. But then, importing real steak and ribs from Earth would have driven the price up into low orbit.
The waiter returned, carrying a tray of steak and mashed potatoes in one hand and a datapad in the other. “Messages have arrived for both of you,” he said. “They’re both marked low priority.”
George exchanged a glance with Barton. Messages? Messages from whom? Her family didn't know where she was, as far as she knew. She took the datapad and tapped the scanner, allowing it to read the naval ID chip implanted in her palm. Moments later, the message unlocked itself. She read it quickly and scowled.
“They want me back at the ship a day early,” she said. It wasn't really a surprise - she’d been lucky to get five solid days of off-ship leave approved - but it was annoying. She'd hoped for another night together. “And you too, I guess.”
Barton took the datapad and read his message. “A very good guess,” he said. “I’m expected to report to my new department head tomorrow morning.”
George sighed as she took back the datapad and checked the travel schedules. The resort didn't have a proper airport or spaceport and it wasn't on the high-speed monorail network that linked the various settlements together. They’d have to get a tripod, paying through the nose for passage to the nearest spaceport. And they’d have to get a shuttle from there to L4.
“We’re going to be pushing it,” she said. There was no way the Royal Navy would devote an interplanetary shuttle to a very junior officer and a crewman, no matter who she happened to have for relatives. “We’ll have to leave in less than a couple of hours if we want to make it there for the deadline.”
“Then we need to be out of here in one,” Barton said. He cut up his steak, then started to chew it piece by piece. “Eat up quickly, George. There’ll be a delay at the shuttleport or my name’s
not Peter Barton.”
“You’ll be renamed Mud if you’re wrong,” George said, warningly. “I don’t want to get back too early.”
She shook her head. He was right. She knew he was right. Getting back to the ship early would get them commended for their devotion for duty, getting back to the ship late would earn them both shit duties for the rest of the week. And if Vanguard had to leave without them ... they might as well resign before their careers were blown out of the water. A soldier might just be able to catch up with his unit, at his own expense, but even her expense account wouldn't be enough to hire an interstellar starship to follow the battleship.
They ate their food quickly, then hurried back to their suite to dress and pack up their bags before departure. It felt odd to wear clothes again, but George rather doubted she’d be allowed to walk about naked on a battleship. She’d slept in her underwear during normal operations and fully dressed during the long crawl home, knowing that they might have to snap awake and run to their duty stations at any moment. She took one last look at the huge room - the bed had been more than large enough for some of their more exotic experiments - and then scooped up her knapsack and headed for the door. Barton followed her, shaking his head slowly. To him, she realised dully, the four nights had to have been paradise.
Fear God and Dread Naught Page 5
