George cleared her throat. “What are you doing?”
Felicity jumped, nearly knocking over the pail of water. George couldn't help thinking she looked like Cinderella, if Cinderella had worn a naval uniform rather than a ragged dress and remarkably fetching hairdo. She pushed the thought aside as Felicity stood and snapped out a salute, remembering that Felicity’s next duty assignment was just after hers. What the hell was she doing scrubbing the deck?
“I’m cleaning the compartment,” Felicity said. “Mr. Potter ordered me to make sure the floor was so clean he could eat his dinner off it.”
George felt her temper flare. “And by what right,” she demanded, “does he issue orders?”
Felicity looked perplexed. “He is senior to me, isn't he?”
“It doesn't work that way,” George snarled. She was going to kill him. It was hard, so hard, to resist the urge to storm back into the bunkroom and tear Potter a new arsehole. “I’m the senior midshipman - that makes me the First Middy. I am in charge. How the hell did you get through four years at the Academy without knowing that?”
She had to fight to resist the urge to shake the younger girl. She’d been drilled extensively on rank, seniority and questions of precedence. There was no way that particular part of the curriculum would have been removed, not when it was far too important to the chain of command. Potter might be senior to Felicity, but that meant nothing as long as Potter wasn't the First Middy. And yet, he was trying to assert his authority ...
Bastard, she thought. There were limits to what she could do to him, limits she dared not cross. It would just get her in hot water. And yet, she couldn't go to the XO or anyone higher up the food chain either. It would make her look weak. Potter ... might just have contrived a situation where she practically had to let him get away with it, if she wanted to keep her position. Fucking bastard!
Her palms hurt. She realised, numbly, that she’d been squeezing her fists and driving her nails into her skin hard enough to draw blood. Fraser would probably have settled the matter with his fists, taking Potter into the ring for a one-sided bout, but that wasn't an option for her. She might lose ...
... And if she did, she would be honour-bound to concede the position to him.
Felicity looked nervous, as if she was on the verge of breaking into loud sobs. George stared at her in disgust. How the hell had she survived four years at the Academy? George had found it hard going and she’d been a goddamned tomboy! She’d practiced everything from getting up at the crack of dawn to multitasking while an officer was screaming at her. God knew boarding school was excellent preparation for the naval academy ...
“Clear up this mess,” George ordered, sharply. She was tempted to comfort the younger girl, as she’d comforted her sister, but Felicity had to learn to stand on her own two feet. “And if he gives you any more orders, feel free to treat them as suggestions.”
She turned and stormed out of the room, heading down to the bunkroom and opening the hatch. Paula was lying on her bunk, snoring gently; Potter was sitting on the lower bunk, smiling thinly to himself. She opened her mouth, then bit down hard. Whatever she said to Potter, she knew she couldn't wake Paula. She needed her sleep too.
“Come with me,” she ordered. “Now.”
Potter rose - so slowly she knew he was trying to annoy her - and followed her into the next compartment. It was normally used to allow midshipmen to record v-mails for their families, but now - thankfully - it was empty. She closed the hatch - absurdly, she wished suddenly that she could slam it - and turned to glare at him. Potter met her rage with the same maddening smile.
“You are not in charge of this compartment,” George snapped. “You are not First Middy.”
“For now,” Potter said.
George wished, just for a moment, that Fraser had stayed as First Middy. He would never have tolerated Potter, not for a second. But there was no point in wishing for things she knew she couldn't have.
“You have been a midshipman on two different ships,” she said, instead. “You know how to act” - although she couldn't help wondering if Potter had caused trouble elsewhere - “so fucking do it. If you become First Middy, you can issue orders all you please ... but for the moment, take orders instead of giving them!”
Potter smirked. “What if I have to tell them what to do?”
“Then explain why it has to be done,” George said.
“There might not be time to explain,” Potter said. “They might need to be given orders.”
George placed iron controls on her temper. She knew what he was trying to do and she was damned if she was letting him. Potter reminded her, all too much, of the little brats at school who’d been practicing for a career in law by finding all the loopholes and exploiting them ruthlessly. But at least she’d had more options for dealing with them.
“You will not issue orders unless absolutely necessary,” she said. “And if the orders are not necessary, in my opinion, you will have punishment duties. Do you understand me?”
“Of course, Your Supremacy,” Potter said.
“And, seeing you seem to believe the compartment needs to be cleaned, you can clean out the bunkroom after you get back from your next duty station,” George added. “And make damn sure you don’t disturb anyone while you work. Do you understand me?”
Potter, just for a second, looked irked. She counted it as a small victory.
“Yes,” he said. “I understand.”
George gritted her teeth. She knew, all too well, that the whole affair was far from over.
Chapter Eleven
The command chair felt ... different.
Susan settled into it as the crew ran through the final checks, silently relieved that they were about to leave without any further problems. She’d sat in it dozens of times, from the hours she’d spent on watch duty to the time she’d served as Vanguard’s commanding officer, but this was different. This time, the ship was hers. There were no rocks waiting to fall on her head, no grim awareness that she might be sent to Colchester - or worse - after she brought the ship home. Vanguard was hers. And no one could ever take it from her.
She surveyed the bridge, quietly noting how the crew had taken up their positions and were readying the ship to depart, then moved her eyes to the near-space display. The massive battleship, flanked by USS New York and USS Indianapolis, dominated the scene, a collection of firepower that could comprehensively thrash any formation from the First Interstellar War without breaking a sweat. Two giant carriers hung in space behind the battleships, their starfighters running long-range recon flights around the task force. No one had any reason to expect that the new enemies might be watching Earth, but there was no point in taking chances. Besides, JHQ might decide to slip a stealth ship into firing range, just to test their defences.
And they probably would, if we had more time, Susan thought. Seventeen warships and twenty-seven transports ... it was a formidable force, but tiny compared to the massed power of humanity’s fleets. They’re concerned with getting us out as quickly as possible.
She glanced at her console as status reports started to come in from all over the ship, each one reporting a complete lack of problems. Susan was torn between relief and concern; she knew, all too well, just how many problems would only appear when the fleet went to full military power. And, by then, they might be halfway to their destination. It wouldn't do her reputation any good if her ship had to limp back to Earth, having lost half her drive rooms to an unexpected emergency.
“Captain,” Mason said. “All departments have reported in. All systems are green. I say again, all systems are green.”
“Very good, Mr. XO,” Susan said, with equal formality. She watched as he turned his head back to his console. “Communications, raise the flag. Inform Admiral Harper that we are ready to depart on schedule.”
“Aye, Captain,” Lieutenant Theodore Parkinson said.
Susan gazed at the back of his head, silently relieved that Parkinson
had been left on Vanguard. He was a Tadpole expert - too rare and valuable to be charged with anything, unlike the rest of the crew - but she had a feeling she’d be glad of his expertise when they finally reached their destination. Prince Henry’s small crew of experts were decent people, she was sure, yet they were civilians. They wouldn't understand the importance of putting military matters first, when there was a war on.
“Signal from the flag,” Parkinson said. “The task force is to proceed as planned.”
“Understood,” Susan said. “Helm?”
“All drives are online and ready to go,” David Reed said.
Susan sucked in a breath. “Take us out,” she ordered. “And make sure we hold combat position.”
A low thrumming echoed through the hull as the giant battleship slowly started to move, picking up speed as she headed towards the tramline. The two American battleships seemed to fall behind for long seconds - Susan couldn't help noticing that their drives were either less efficient or their hulls were too heavily armoured - before they picked up speed and returned to their flanking positions. She wasn't too surprised to note that the carriers didn't seem to be having any trouble keeping up with the battleships, although the smaller units were definitely leading the way. But then, destroyers and frigates had unsurprisingly sharp acceleration curves.
“We are holding position, as planned,” Reed reported. “We will cross the tramline in forty minutes.”
“Copy our final records to the Admiralty,” Susan ordered. “And then remind the crew that they have thirty minutes to upload any messages into the planetary datanet.”
She smiled, inwardly, at the thought. The only person she wanted to talk to was her father - and she’d uploaded a long v-mail to him the previous night. It was a shame they couldn't talk in person, or even hold a proper conversation without an increasingly annoying time-delay between messages and replies, but wishful thinking couldn't change the laws of nature. Until someone managed to find a way to send messages at FTL speeds, humanity would just have to adapt to the universe.
And besides, he might ask too many questions if we were face-to-face, she thought, sardonically. She’d given her father the official story, but she’d never been able to lie to him as a young girl. He would know that something was wrong, although - as an experienced military officer himself - he would probably understand that such matters were classified well above his former pay grade. And what would he say if he found out the truth?
She pushed the question aside as she monitored her ship’s performance. Apart from a brief spike in messages being beamed off the ship, back to the communications hub orbiting Earth, everything seemed to be normal. All of the starship’s fusion reactors were online and supplying power - more power, in fact, than the battleship actually needed. But then, there was a strong prospect of losing one or more of the reactors during a particularly savage engagement. Vanguard could - in theory - run and fight on a single reactor.
But no one has actually tested the concept, she reminded herself. The thought sent a chill running down her spine. We might find out, if the war goes on long enough.
“Signal from the flag,” Parkinson informed her. “Admiral Harper wishes us to proceed to the tramline with no further delay.”
Susan’s eyes narrowed. They were going to the tramline and Harper knew it. Was he trying to sound efficient ... or was one of his other subordinates questioning his orders? She tossed the possibilities around in her head for a long moment, then shrugged. It wasn't her concern, not right now. If she had to assume command of the task force, it would be in the thick of a battle and no one in their right mind would dispute her claim to authority.
“Acknowledge the signal,” she ordered. “And then keep us on our current course.”
“Aye, Captain,” Parkinson said.
Susan nodded, then glanced at the final string of messages appearing in her inbox. None of them were marked urgent - officers who abused the classification system had short and unpleasant careers - but it was astonishing just how much worthless crap the REMFs expected her to study during the voyage. Did they think she was on a pleasure cruise? It wasn't as if she was lying on a four-poster bed, a drink in one hand and a book in the other, sunning herself under the cabin lights. The only update of interest was a short note stating that enemy activity had been observed in three new systems, but as the titbit was out of date by two months she was fairly sure it was largely useless.
It might not be completely useless, she thought, darkly. By the time we get there, they might just have secured the systems and moved to cut Unity off from reinforcements.
She contemplated the problem for a long moment, despite both training and experience telling her it was pointless. It didn't take an ace captain - or a patriotic scriptwriter - to run a blockade, at least as long as they didn't try to get close to the planet. Hell, the SAS had managed to land on Pegasus during the Anglo-Indian War, despite a strong enemy presence and enough ground-based planetary defence units to make Haig weep. The newcomers might have better weapons and sensors, but they didn't seem to have anything too far ahead of the Royal Navy. If they had, the war would already be over.
“Captain,” Reed said. “We will be crossing the tramline on schedule.”
“Jones is moving ahead to sweep the transit point,” Parkinson added.
“Good,” Susan said. “Make sure we pull a live feed directly from their sensors.”
She leaned forward, feeling her heart starting to pound in her chest. Sending a destroyer to sweep the space around the tramline for cloaked starships smacked of paranoia - it wasn't as if they were hopping directly into unexplored territory, where entire enemy fleets might be lying in wait - but it was good practice. Half of history’s naval disasters, she'd been told, could have been averted if someone had taken basic precautions before it was too late. And if the enemy did manage to get a point-blank shot at Vanguard or one of the other capital ships, it would be very embarrassing indeed. The operation might be over before it had even begun.
“Local space is clear,” Lieutenant Charlotte Watson said. The sensor operator worked her console with practiced skill, never taking her eyes off the feed of raw data washing into her systems. “If there’s anything watching us, Captain, it’s very well hidden.”
Which proves nothing, Susan thought. A single destroyer, lying doggo with all of her sensors and drives stepped down to the bare minimum, would be able to get a hard lock on all of us before we knew she was there.
“Signal from the flag,” Parkinson said. “All ships are to make transit as planned.”
“Helm, take us through,” Susan ordered. “And then maintain course.”
“Aye, Captain,” Reed said.
Susan closed her eyes as a dull quiver echoed through the ship, marking the moment the ship jumped through the tramline. She opened them again, just in time to see the tactical display blank out and then hastily start reformatting itself, drawing data from the starship’s sensors and the remainder of the squadron. Her worst nightmare - every commanding officer’s worst nightmare - was running straight into the teeth of enemy fire, but there didn't seem to be any surprises lying in wait, merely the steadily-growing interplanetary infrastructure pervading the Terra Nova system.
“Jump complete,” Reed reported.
“All systems read clear,” Charlotte added.
Susan nodded. It would be hours before they received any signals from Terra Nova itself - or any of the smaller settlements scattered around the system - but it didn't look as though there was any reason to panic. Terra Nova might be one of the most lawless systems in the Human Sphere - the planet was still politically fragmented, making it harder for its governments to try to assert authority outside the gravity well - yet there was still enough of an outsider naval presence to make sure that any alien ships that poked their noses into the system got them cut off. Or so she hoped ...
There’s also enough activity within the system to make it easier for the enemy to sneak ar
ound, if they were careful, she thought. And that could be very bad.
She rose. “Mr. XO, you have the conn,” she said.
“Aye, Captain,” Mason said. “I have the conn.”
Susan nodded, then strode through the hatch into her office. There was paperwork to do, ranging from unimportant matters that still needed the captain’s personal touch to an emailed request from a reporter, asking to speak with her at her earliest convenience. Susan eyed the latter darkly for a long moment, then deleted the message, discarding it into the terminal’s recycle bin. Normally, Public Relations would be nagging her to speak to the press - after making sure she was primed with the navy line on all matters - but for once PR seemed to believe that it was better to be silent. Besides, with the reporters trapped on New York, they’d have some problems pestering her.
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