The pilots didn't look happy at the reminder. Kurt couldn't really blame them. One squadron wasn't really enough to provide cover for the flotilla, even if the flotilla was armed with rail guns and improved sensor programs that should give the aliens a nasty shock. Ideally, the other pilots would be able to rush from the simulators to their starfighters within minutes, but even their best timing wasn't ideal. When they got closer to New Russia, they’d have to abandon the simulators and remain on combat launch alert.
He made a show of glancing at his watch. “We start simulating in five minutes,” he said, raising his voice. “Anyone not there when I arrive will be buying the drinks.”
The room emptied, rapidly. Kurt allowed himself a smile as he saw the reporter’s bemusement. The pilots might have allowed themselves to chat her up, but not when their wallets were on the line. Kurt hadn't been joking when he’d told them that any latecomers would be buying the drinks, next time the pilots went on leave. The costs could easily reach a few hundred pounds.
“You can watch, if you like,” Kurt said, “but do not interrupt.”
The reporter looked up at him. Up close, she was so emaciated that Kurt seriously considered dragging her to the doctor and asking for a check-up.
“I won’t interrupt,” she assured him. “But can I ask for an interview later?”
Kurt met her eyes. There were tiny flecks of gold in them, hidden recording systems that would record everything she saw. Kurt had seen similar systems used by investment bankers, although their systems were different. He wondered, absently, just how the reporter found time to review everything she recorded.
“Maybe,” he said. “But it depends on my schedule.”
Chapter Sixteen
“All ships have reported in, Captain,” Lieutenant Annie Davidson reported. “They're ready to depart.”
Ted nodded. Ark Royal had been designed as a command ship, but her fleet command systems had been removed long ago. Refitting the ship with a modern system had taken two days of hard work, which hadn't left much time for practicing operational manoeuvres. They could still simulate operations, but it wasn't the same.
“Then signal the Admiralty,” he ordered. “Inform them that we are ready to depart.”
A dull quiver ran through the ship as her drives powered up. Ted allowed himself a tight smile, then checked the ship’s status display. Everything seemed to be optimal, although he wasn't entirely confident about how well the newer systems had integrated with the older systems.
“The Admiralty wishes us luck,” Annie said. “They’ve cleared us to depart.”
“Good,” Ted said. He looked over at the helmsman. “Take us out.”
Ark Royal quivered again as she moved forward, advancing towards the tramline. Ted watched the other starships fanning out around the carrier – unlike Ark Royal, they were nimble even if they did have other problems – and then looked back at the orbital display. Earth was heavily defended – the various spacefaring powers had managed to rig up orbital platforms to launch starfighters, as well as modifying civilian mass drivers to serve as weapons – but it was impossible to tell just how long the defences would stand against a determined alien attack. Besides, the aliens could do considerable damage by staying out of range of Earth’s defenders and attacking installations across the solar system.
“Tramline in two hours, forty minutes,” Lieutenant Daniel Lightbridge reported. “We’re clear of the Earth-Moon defence perimeter.”
Ted nodded, settling back into his command chair. He wouldn't relax at all, he knew, until they were on their way home. Three weeks of travel to reach their destination ... a great deal could happen in three weeks. What if the aliens managed to block their retreat? Or ... New Russia wasn't the youngest full-fledged colony world in the human sphere, but the tramlines further away from New Russia and Vera Cruz had never been truly explored. The alien homeworld might be lurking at the far end of one of those tramlines ...
... Or it might be much further away, Ted thought, grimly. Their improved Puller Drive might give them far more range than we believe possible.
He shook his head. There was nothing in the detailed reports, half of which were nothing more than guesswork, that even gave a hint at the alien motives. Some of the scientists believed that it was nothing more than an accident, others – more cynical – pointed out that humanity had developed plenty of bastards who’d started wars to increase their own power, spread their religion, steal natural resources or simply for fun. But there was no way to know. Humanity’s visions of aliens ranged between inhuman monsters to incredibly advanced creatures who would share the secrets of the universe. Right now, it was looking like the former was actually correct.
“Inform me when we enter the tramline,” he ordered. “Until then, clear the CAG to commence his exercises.”
“Aye, sir,” Lightbridge said.
***
There had been a dispute between James and the reporters over the question of their right to step onto the bridge. James had ruled – and the Captain had backed him up – that the bridge was closed to the reporters at all times, except by prior arrangement. The reporters had contacted the Admiralty and whined, with the net result that the Admiralty insisted they should have access to the CIC when Ark Royal wasn't actually in combat or undergoing combat exercises. James was already planning a series of exercises that would work the crew to death while keeping a careful eye on the reporters. Thankfully, he had managed to insist that only four reporters could enter the compartment at a time.
“It isn't very impressive,” one of the reporters – the inhumanly thin girl – muttered. “I was expecting more.”
James wanted to roll his eyes. “This isn't a movie set,” he said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Every one of these consoles is designed to be useful, not explode at the drop of a hat.”
He tapped a switch, bringing up the display. “As you can see, the flotilla is currently accompanying us ...”
Somehow, he made it through the rest of the hour without losing his temper. The handful of experienced reporters seemed to know what they were doing, even the reporter who had embedded with 16 Air Assault Brigade during the raid on Lovell Base on Mars, but the inexperienced reporters kept asking the same silly questions, over and over again. And the unimpressive CIC didn't seem to help. Absently, he wondered if the Royal Navy shouldn't produce a Potemkin starship for the reporters, with more attention paid to aesthetics rather than actual fighting power. Maybe they could share the costs with the other spacefaring powers. None of them enjoyed particularly respectful reporters.
He was still in a grumpy mood when he walked down to his cabin for the first interview. All of the reporters had wanted to interview him – and the Captain and everyone else on the ship – but he’d managed to insist on choosing his own interviewer. He’d picked one of the experienced reporters, a man who’d actually been a carrier tech before retraining as a journalist. His reports held a genuine flavour of someone who had actually been on a carrier as more than just a visitor, although there were hints that he thought he could do better. At least, James considered, he had some reason for thinking so. Most of the others would get themselves killed if they were allowed to roam the carrier unescorted.
“Commander,” the reporter said. Marcus Yang was tall, a his face a mixture of Chinese and English features, but there was a reassuring competence in his attitude that James appreciated more than he cared to admit. “Thank you for the interview.”
James snorted as he sat down and waved the reporter to the other chair. If it had been up to him, there would be no interviews at all ... particularly not with the reporters who'd gained their places on account of their looks, rather than general competence. He reminded himself, sharply, that they might not be fools. Good looks didn't always equal stupidity. One of the female reporters might prefer to be underestimated by her prey.
“You’re welcome,” he said. It was a lie and he knew Yang knew it was a lie. �
��But I’m afraid time is at a premium.”
“I won't take too much of your time,” Yang said. “How did you wind up on Ark Royal?”
“The navy assigned me,” James said. It was true enough, if certain details were excluded from consideration. He’d worked hard to insert himself into the carrier’s chain of command, prior to discovering her true condition. “I went willingly.”
“So it would seem,” Yang mused. He changed the subject with suspicious haste. “What do you believe the aliens actually want?”
“I believe that it would be a mistake to speculate without data,” James said, firmly. He wasn't sure just how much data the reporters had access to, although he would have been surprised if none of the reports had leaked. “We simply know nothing about their culture, their society or what they actually want from us.”
Yang smiled. “You don’t have a theory?”
“No,” James said, not altogether truthfully. He had his theories, but none of them had any real weight. “Maybe they just think we’re ugly as sin.”
Yang’s smile grew wider. “What would you say to the suggestion that top brass in the various spacefaring nations knew that the aliens existed a long time before they actually revealed themselves?”
James hesitated, remembering his private theories. It was certainly odd to realise just how much time and effort – to say nothing of money – had been poured into the various space navies over the last century. But if the Admiralty – and the politicians - had known about the aliens for so long, the secret would almost certainly have leaked. Keeping it a secret would have required paying off or co-opting so many people that it would have made a significant dent in the navy’s budget.
“I would say that it seems unlikely,” he said. He made a mental note to record a message for Uncle Winchester. None of the briefing notes had covered this eventuality. If there was any truth to the suggestion at all, he wanted to know about it. “The governments of this world are not good at keeping secrets.”
Yang smiled, rather ruthlessly. “That happens to be true,” he agreed. “Do you happen to think the Captain is suitable for command?”
James sat upright, sharply. “What?”
“Captain Smith was hitting the bottle pretty hard,” Yang observed. “It’s right there on his service record. No one made any attempt to hide it. Do you think the Captain is suitable for command?”
“Get out,” James ordered. It was a poor reaction, as he admitted to himself a moment later, but he was damned if he was allowing this line of questioning to continue. And to think he'd thought that Yang was one of the reasonable reporters!
Yang rose to his feet, but didn't leave the room. “Off the record,” he said. “What do you think?”
It had been bad enough, James knew, when the First Space Lord had been asking him to watch the Captain. At least the First Space Lord was a superior officer, not a damned reporter. How had Yang even gained access to the Captain’s service record? Had it been allowed to slip into his hands deliberately? If someone felt that Captain Smith was a poor Captain, they might have hoped the media would bring pressure to bear against him.
But Captain Smith was a hero ...
James shook his head. If there was one lesson the aristocracy had learned and learned well, it was that the media could turn on their previous darling and savage him ruthlessly.
“I think that Captain Smith has won the first and only victory against the aliens,” he snapped, finally. “And I think you should bear that in mind.”
He watched Yang leave his quarters, then reached for his terminal. There was an hour to go before they crossed the tramline and started their cruise, more than long enough for him to contact Uncle Winchester and explain what had happened. There would be no time for a reply, but it didn’t matter. If Yang decided to express his doubts ... if he did have doubts. It struck James that Yang hadn't really expressed any feelings of his own.
Idiot, he thought, recalling other pieces of advice from the past. When you tangle with the press, you never come out ahead in the long run.
***
Kurt wiped sweat from his brow as he clambered out of his starfighter and half-walked, half-staggered towards the wardroom. Behind him, he heard the sound of the launch bay crew moving the starfighter back into the launch tubes, replacing the power cells as they moved. The sound faded away as he stepped through the airlock, then into the wardroom. Luckily, the wardroom was one of the places barred to reporters by prior arrangement.
He stripped off his flight suit and dropped it in the basket, then strode into the shower to wash away the sweat. Water ran down, cleansing his body; he closed his eyes and allowed it to run over his face. He heard the door opening again behind him, but ignored it. Moments later, several other bodies joined him in the shower.
Opening his eyes, he smiled to see that none of the younger pilots looked any better than he felt. It had been a hard exercise, with everyone pushed to the limit. Rose had designed it, partly to make it clear to her subordinates that she was more experienced than them, but Kurt suspected that he would have to have a few words with her about overdoing it. A pair of experienced pilots had come alarmingly close to disaster.
“Get some rest,” he advised, as he stepped out of the shower and towelled himself off. “We will be going back to the simulators in the morning.”
Walking back into the wardroom, he pulled on his shipsuit and headed towards the door. It opened a moment before he reached it, revealing Rose and a handful of her new subordinates, chatting together with surprising enthusiasm. The exercise must have comprehensively broken the ice, he decided. It helped that she’d been a squadron flyer until her sudden promotion after the first battle.
“I need a word with you after you’ve showered,” he said, catching Rose’s arm. “Meet me in my office.”
He let her go and walked past her, into the small office. A quick check of the terminal revealed messages from both Percy and Penny, but nothing from Molly. Feeling an odd spurt of confusion and alarm, he opened the first message from Percy and discovered, to his surprise, that Molly had hired an older girl to take care of the kids. Percy seemed enthused about this development, which puzzled Kurt until he placed the caretaker’s name and remembered just how pretty she was. Penny, on the other hand, complained long and loudly about having an older girl watching her at all times. Apparently, the older girl had made the mistake of believing Molly’s instructions. Kurt’s daughter had found herself going through her homework again and again until the babysitter – Penny seemed to believe that the older girl was her babysitter, which she found very insulting – was satisfied.
Kurt gritted his teeth, then started to record a message. It was hard to blame Molly for hiring help – and besides, it sounded as though the new girl was doing an excellent job. Penny would just have to get used to being supervised, at least until she started working up to the standards Kurt expected. Kurt finished his message by promising a reward, as Rose had suggested, then recorded a second one for Percy. At least his son seemed happy with the situation.
At least until it gets embarrassing, Kurt thought, remembering his own youth. A girl more than three or four years older than he’d been would never have given him a second glance. Percy would waste time trying to impress her, then either do something stupid or get over his crush. Kurt briefly considered trying to warn him, before deciding that it was pointless. His father had tried and Kurt hadn’t listened. It was astonishing just how smart the old man had become in the years between Kurt reaching his teenage years and growing out of them.
There was a tap on the door, which opened to reveal Rose. She looked cleaner, Kurt was relieved to see, but she still looked pleased with herself. Kurt waved her to a chair, then spun his own chair around to face her. Rose sat down, looking past him to see the monitor.
“Did you hear anything from your daughter?”
“She’s complaining about the girl Molly has hired as a ... babysitter,” Kurt said, loading his voice with as
much disdain as a teenage girl could cram into an otherwise innocuous word. “I need to speak to you about the exercise.”
Rose looked thoughtful. “Pushed it a little far, did I?”
“A little,” Kurt agreed, dryly. “You do realise we have reporters on this ship, don’t you?”
“I believe I might have noticed,” Rose said, equally dryly. “One of them wanted me to pose on a starfighter in my underwear.”
Kurt blinked at her. “Why ...?”
“I think he saw The Horniness of Khan once too many times,” Rose said. “I told him he couldn't afford my rates.”
Kurt rolled his eyes. That movie had been giving starfighter pilots giggling fits for years, despite the basement production values. Clearly, no one cared about the lack of special effects if the pilots were all attractive women, particularly women who went through everything from group sex to bondage and spanking. He briefly considered demanding the reporter’s name, then decided it was pointless if Rose didn’t want to make an official complaint.
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