Poor Harper, she thought. He’ll have the bastards camping outside his cabin just for a chance to shout questions at him.
She sighed, then returned to sorting through the paperwork. There was no getting away with it. She’d just have to get it all done as quickly as possible.
And with two months between us and Earth, once we reach Unity, she reminded herself, they’ll find it hard to demand corrections before we get home.
***
“I was expecting something more, Your Highness,” Doctor Song said. They stood together in the observation blister, staring out at the unblinking stars. “All of the movies show flashing starlight or waves of eerie light.”
“The media knows nothing and the film producers know even less,” Henry said. He had to admit he’d been disappointed too, when he’d made his first jump through the tramlines, but his superiors had kept him too busy to complain. “Reality” - he waved a hand at the stars outside the blister - “isn't dramatic enough for them.”
Doctor Song eyed him, thoughtfully. “Is there a reason for that?”
Henry shrugged. “Shipboard lasers are invisible to the naked eye,” he said. “And missiles move so quickly that the human mind has difficulty tracking them. Only plasma cannons produce spectacular blast effects and, even then, they’re not quite the death rays that Hollywood finds attractive. And most of the time, the hard realities of naval combat defeat the producers. They just don’t understand them.”
He smiled, rather thinly. “And so you have movies where starships explode with beams of light that should be visible halfway across the solar system and starfighters perform feats that should be impossible, without completely rewriting the laws of physics.”
“And Stellar Star’s breasts,” Doctor Song added. “They defy the laws of physics too.”
“It’s the most common superpower,” Henry said, dryly.
“I thought that was Royal Blood, Your Highness,” Doctor Song said. “Or was I wrong?”
Henry winced. “Call me Your Excellency, if you must,” he said, pained. “I try to forget that I was ever a prince.”
He braced himself for the usual barrage of questions and was surprised when Doctor Song merely nodded and peered back out into the darkness. He’d suggested she go to the observation blister after she’d started to get a little cabin fever - it wasn't uncommon, even on a battleship - despite the risk she’d think he was flirting with her. Doctor Song was pretty, he would happily admit, but he was a married man. And his wife had put up with a great deal, even sacrificing her career.
But she couldn't have had a normal career, after marrying me, he thought. And I never warned her before it was too late.
His wristcom bleeped. He glanced at it, half-expecting a message from his subordinate asking when he was due back in the compartment and lifted his eyebrows when he realised it was an invitation to dine with the captain. Doctor Song glanced at her own wristcom, then looked at him. She’d received the same invitation too.
“I don’t have anything to wear,” she said. She paused. “What do I wear? What do I do?”
Henry blinked. “You were never taught the rules of formal dining at school?”
Doctor Song shook her head. Henry wondered at that for a long moment, then shrugged and composed his thoughts. Formal dining had been taught at his school, but it was possible that other schools didn't touch on the subject. Any officers attending a regimental dinner - or a dinner with their commanding officer - would be briefed on how to behave beforehand.
“You don’t have a uniform,” he said, after a moment. “Did you bring a decent civilian outfit?”
“No,” Doctor Song said. “Just my normal clothes.”
“Draw something from the quartermaster,” Henry said. They’d have something Doctor Song could wear, even if they had to take the rank stripes and badges off a naval uniform. “And remember to speak with everyone you can, even if you don’t like them.”
He ran through the same advice he’d been given, although formal dinners had never been a big part of his naval career. “Be there early; that’s when they start serving the booze. If you’re not a big drinker, make sure you get a glass of juice or water. Check where you’ll be sitting, then make the acquaintance of the man sitting to your right. He’ll be escorting you to your chair, when the mess call is played. Eat what you are given; if there is anything you don’t like, just leave it on your plate ...”
Doctor Song was looking faintly shell-shocked by the time he finally came to a halt. “Is there anything more?”
“Don’t buttonhole the captain,” Henry said, after a moment. “My uncle was fond of telling me about an ... incident during a regimental dinner, but I don’t think anyone else found it funny. There was a young officer, who’d drunk enough of the port to make him mildly tipsy, who captured his superior officer - his very superior and told him everything that was wrong with his regiment. And it was a very silly list.”
“I see,” Doctor Song said. “What happened to the young man?”
“I believe he was reassigned to a monitoring post in the Falklands,” Henry said. He smiled at her expression. “But I don’t think the captain will be that concerned about you.”
“That’s a relief,” Doctor Song said. “But what about you?”
“I’m a lost cause,” Henry said.
He smiled at her, then turned towards the hatch. “The dinner is at 1900 for 1930,” he added, pausing. “Make sure you’re there for 1900. An officer will be delighted to show you the way, if you don’t want me escorting you there. And try not to get drunk.”
“I don’t drink,” Doctor Song said. “And after what you’ve said, I don’t know why anyone drinks.”
“It helps to make parties merry,” Henry said. If he had a pound for every glass of wine he’d had at diplomatic dinners, he’d have at least a hundred thousand pounds. “And sometimes it makes them too merry.”
Chapter Twelve
Whoever had designed the Royal Navy’s dress uniform, George thought for what had to be the thousandth time, had been an absolute sadist. The jacket was too tight, the shirt was too white and the trousers felt unnaturally stiff against her skin. She had the ominous feeling that a sudden hasty movement would result in her clothes splitting open, something that would probably get her busted all the way back to cadet. But there was nothing she could do about it. Midshipmen were encouraged to alter their day uniforms to suit their needs, if necessary, but the dress uniforms were untouchable. All she could do was endure.
She felt an odd pang as she led the other midshipmen into the officers wardroom, feeling more than a little out of place. She'd endured a number of formal dinners during her childhood - sitting at the table for longer than half an hour was one of the skills her parents had hammered into her young head - but this was different. This time, she was responsible for four other midshipmen, one of whom wanted her job while another seemed remarkably lazy.
“Mingle,” she ordered, quietly. “And be polite.”
“I am always polite,” Potter muttered.
George resisted the urge to glare at him as he hurried over to chat to one of the civilian specialists - a woman who looked to be half-Chinese - and then made her way over to the wall-mounted seating plan. It looked as though the captain had invited every officer and civilian on the ship, including the marines and all of the civilian specialists. She breathed a sigh of relief as she discovered she’d be sitting next to Prince Henry, then looked around for him. He was standing against the bulkhead, chatting to Lieutenant Reed. George hesitated, knowing it would be unwise to interrupt their conversation. Whoever said there was no rank at the mess - or during an officer’s party - had clearly never served in the military.
She frowned as she saw Felicity standing against one wall, looking utterly out of place despite a uniform that somehow managed to make her look good. The girl seemed to be shy, too shy. George could understand the value of solitude, but she honestly didn't understand how Felicity had manag
ed to get through basic training without either losing the shyness or at least learning how to fake an interest in someone else. But then, Felicity had no experience talking to someone who outranked her, at least in a social setting. George might be a midshipman, but she took social precedence over just about everyone else in the room.
Depends if you count Prince Henry, she thought, as she walked over to Felicity. The younger girl looked relieved to see her, which had to be a first. He might just be heir to the throne.
“Come with me,” she ordered. Prince Henry had finished his discussion with Lieutenant Reed, much to her relief. “I’ll introduce you to His Excellency.”
Prince Henry showed no visible irritation as George introduced him to Felicity. He even kissed her hand, which made her giggle and blush. George concealed her amusement with an effort, then chatted freely to him about the new aliens, inviting Felicity to chat too. He was good at bringing her out of her shell, George noted. But then, he'd been expected to be nothing more than a figurehead for most of his life. Being good to people was all he’d been taught to do.
“That’s the mess call,” Prince Henry said, as a low whistle echoed through the compartment, cutting off the buzz of conversation. He held out an arm to George. “Shall we go?”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” George said.
She took the opportunity to glance around for the other midshipmen. Frasier, it seemed, was sitting next to Felicity. She looked tiny against his massive frame, too intimidated to speak even as he walked her into the compartment. Henderson had been placed next to Lieutenant Watson, which had to be awkward; Paula was sitting next to one of the marine officers. And Potter, it seemed, was sitting next to the Chinese scientist. He was going to be unbearable for the next few days.
“Your uncle sends his regards,” Prince Henry said. “I had a long chat with him last week.”
“I haven't spoken to him since our last departure,” George said. She’d half-hoped he’d speak with her when he’d visited Vanguard, a week after they’d returned to Earth, but he hadn’t called for her. “What did he say?”
“We chatted about the war,” Prince Henry said. “And politics. And family.”
“You have children,” George recalled. “How are they coping with Earth?”
“Complaining about the weather, mainly,” Prince Henry said. He pulled out her chair, allowing her to seat herself, then took his own chair. “It’s freezing cold as far as they are concerned.”
George nodded. Tadpole Prime was hardly her idea of a prime vacation destination, but she could see why a gaggle of small children would love it. Endless beaches, bright sunlight ... the ice cream never running out ... she’d have loved it too, if she’d been eight when she’d gone there. And it was safe in a way that Earth could never be, even though the oceans were teeming with deadly animals.
“Maybe you should send them to Jamaica,” she said, after a moment. “Or the Maldives.”
“It has its attractions,” Prince Henry said. He straightened up as the XO called for attention, his voice echoing around the compartment. “But it’s really too far from Britain.”
***
Susan had never been fond of formal dinners, although Hanover Towers had drilled comportment into her until she was incapable of making a mistake. And yet, she had never hosted one of her own until now. She’d passed most of the duties on to the mess officers, but she still found it stressful. There was an odd edge running through the room that bothered her, even though she couldn't put her finger on it.
“The midshipmen are a little stroppy,” Paul Mason muttered. Her XO had clearly picked up the same vibes. “And I’d say they really need more supervision.”
Susan frowned, her gaze easily picking out the midshipmen amongst the room. George Fitzwilliam looked ... tense, while Clayton Henderson looked bored and Paula Spurgeon looked impassive. And Simon Potter seemed to be enjoying himself, laughing and flirting with one of the civilians, while Felicity Wheeler looked terrified.
“It isn't easy with four new midshipmen,” she mused. “I only ever had to integrate two into middy country.”
“Two of them should be making it easier for her,” Mason observed. “But it doesn't look as though they are, does it?”
Susan nodded, slowly. She would have thought that a life in the aristocracy would have prepared George Fitzwilliam to issue orders, if nothing else, but it seemed that her preconceptions were ill-founded. George looked like a particularly harried mother, one whose teenage children routinely ignored her even though she suffered when they got into trouble. The dynamics of life as a midshipman could be harsh, at times - Susan had lost count of the number of times she’d had to fight to maintain her position - but matters definitely seemed to be getting out of hand.
Perhaps it was a mistake to promote Fraser, she thought, as the stewards brought the first course, a thick chicken and vegetable soup. But he’d more than earned his promotion.
She considered the options as she sipped her soup, quietly noting that all five of the midshipmen had decent table manners. But then, they’d had them battered into their heads at the Academy. Their instructors would not have hesitated to point out any mistakes as loudly as possible, just to show others just what mistakes could be made. This ... this was different.
“We can't interfere openly,” she muttered. “Can we?”
“No, Captain,” Mason said. “It would be bad.”
Susan nodded. A First Middy could call upon help from her superiors, if she needed it, but making the call could easily be seen as an admission of weakness. George Fitzwilliam was meant to wield authority, not go running to superior authority at the first hurdle. She might be right, she might need help ... and yet it would cost her any real chance at promotion. If she couldn’t handle a middy compartment, people would ask, why should she be trusted with an entire ship?
“Keep an eye on the situation,” she ordered, finally. “And let me know if it gets any worse.”
She felt her lips thin with disapproval as she eyed Midshipman Henderson. He might not be interested in his dinner companion, but he didn't seem to have the wit or the ability to feign interest in whatever she might say. There were commanding officers, she knew, who wouldn't hesitate to call a young officer on the carpet for such behaviour, along with his immediate superior. But George Fitzwilliam couldn't tell him off from halfway across the room, could she?
“We could always fiddle with the sleeping rotations,” Mason suggested. “Put a couple of marine officers in Fraser’s cabin and move him back to Middy Country. He’d still be a lieutenant, but he’d definitely be in charge.”
“No,” Susan said. It would be seen as a demotion for both Fraser and George Fitzwilliam, no matter what excuse they used. “She really needs some extra support.”
She scowled as the stewards removed the soup bowls and brought out plates of roast beef and vegetables. She’d been First Middy ... and she’d known she could trust the rest of the midshipmen to handle themselves, leaving her with the task of supervising one or two newcomers at a time. George Fitzwilliam ... didn't have that luxury. She had to run around supervising all four of the newcomers, even though two of them had prior experience. No wonder she was looking ragged. If the handful of complaints Susan had heard were just the tip of the iceberg, her career was on a knife-edge.
“Put Potter in the tactical compartment full-time,” Mason offered. “Jean can take care of him - and make sure he’s worked to the bone.”
“Maybe,” Susan said. Perhaps she could rotate one of the midshipmen to Edinburgh or Pinafore, although she doubted that either Captain Stewart or Captain Garret would be happy with a midshipman in bad odour. “I’ll give it some thought.”
The rest of the meal went surprisingly well, much to her relief, until the toasts finally rolled around. Susan pretended not to see Lieutenant Fraser elbowing Felicity Wheeler, reminding her - as the youngest officer present - that it was her duty to call the toast to the king. The young midshipman’s voi
ce wobbled alarmingly as she spoke; Susan kept her face impassive as she saw the mingled horror and pity crossing George Fitzwilliam’s face. There were captains who would have made the young girl repeat the toast again and again until she could offer it in a steady voice.
Not me, she told herself. But what were they thinking at the Academy?
“Go through her file with a fine-toothed comb,” she ordered, as the dinner finally came to an end. “Find out what - if any - concerns were noted by her tutors.”
“Aye, Captain,” Mason said.
Susan nodded as she called for port, then rose, signifying that the formal side of the dinner was now over. It was a grave breach of etiquette to leave before the dinner was formally finished, although neither she nor any other commanding officer worthy of the name would have objected in a genuine emergency. The vindictive part of her mind was tempted to stay for a great deal longer, just to force the midshipmen to stay in the compartment with her, but she dismissed the thought as unworthy of her. Instead, she paused long enough to exchange a few words with Prince Henry, then left the compartment. Her departure signified that the other guests could leave at will.
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