Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7)

by Christopher Nuttall

  She heard a hatch hiss open and braced herself as she was half-pulled into the compartment. It was still dark, inside her hood, but she could hear several people breathing, although it sounded oddly muffled. Perhaps she was imagining it? She’d endured a sensory deprivation chamber as part of her tests, back at the academy; it hadn't taken her long to start imagining she was hearing voices, even though she’d known they were imaginary. Hell, she'd known what she was going to face and it had still been a hellish experience. Perhaps they’d just shoved her in a closet and left her there, bound and helpless. She might be alone ...

  “On your knees,” Fraser’s voice said. It was hard to be sure, but it sounded as though he was standing right in front of her. “Now.”

  It wasn't easy to get down on her knees with her hands bound behind her back, but she managed it, somehow. The sound of breathing grew louder, as if the person was right next to her ... or if her own breathing was echoing in her ears. Being blindfolded was more disconcerting that she’d realised. God alone knew where Nathan was, let alone the others ...

  “We are gathered here today,” Fraser said, “to welcome two prospective crewmembers to our ship.”

  George giggled. She couldn't help herself. Fraser sounded like a man on the verge of performing a wedding ceremony, not someone presiding over an initiation rite. But, a second later, someone slapped her ass hard enough to sting. She bit her lip to keep from crying out at the sudden shock.

  “They must be of stout heart and stouter body to serve on this ship,” Fraser continued, dramatically. George heard the sound of a glass clinking and wondered, feeling a flicker of alarm, just what Fraser was drinking. “Are they ready to drink the nectar of the gods?”

  “Yes,” Randy said.

  George tensed as she felt hands fiddling with her hood, pulling it up so her mouth was exposed. She half-expected to feel a cup being pressed to her lips, but instead she felt something warm and slimy. He had to be out of his mind! Forcing her to perform oral sex was so far beyond the line that Fraser’s court martial would be the shortest formality on record, even if it did ruin her career. A sudden surge of anger shot through her; she opened her mouth, then bit down as hard as she could. She tasted rubber and plastic as she spewed out the remains onto the deck.

  “Well, there goes a good hose,” a female voice said. She sounded as though she was trying not to laugh. “Good thing you didn’t actually ...”

  “Shut up,” Fraser said. He didn’t sound angry, somewhat to George’s surprise. But then, he’d wanted her to think he was going to place his cock in her mouth. “Clearly, they are not ready to drink the nectar of the gods.”

  A ripple of laughter ran around the compartment. George tried to estimate just how many people were standing around her - all seven midshipmen? - but it was impossible to be sure of anything, save for Fraser and Randy. And Nathan. There were two other midshipwomen on the ship, yet she didn't know them that well. Their duty shifts rarely coincided enough to allow her to have a proper chat.

  “They must be tested,” Fraser intoned. “They will rise.”

  George tried to rise, but it was impossible to get off her aching knees with her hands bound behind her back. Eventually, someone took her shoulders and helped her to her feet, then pulled her forward. The deck felt colder, somehow, beneath her bare feet, although she wasn't sure if that was normal. Being without shoes on duty was probably worth an infraction or two. She walked for nearly ten minutes before she was pulled to a halt, confusing her. They wouldn't really have gone outside middy country, would they?

  “The prospective midshipmen will now walk the plank,” Fraser said. He sounded more distant, somehow. “Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam, walk forward.”

  George hesitated, then took a step forward. The deck changed beneath her feet, becoming a piece of springy plastic. It wobbled under her weight; she stopped, unsure just where she was or what she should do. Walking the plank only happened in bad pirate movies or the books her uncle had loaned her, back when she’d expressed an interest in joining the navy. There had been initiation rites in them too, she recalled, although they tended to include floggings until the victim’s back ran with blood. At least Fraser didn't seem to have read those books.

  The plastic shifted again as she took another step. Where did it lead? There wasn't a pit in the ship, was there? Unless someone had taken up some of the deck plating, allowing her to plunge down an entire level. She froze, suddenly convinced that that was precisely what Fraser had done. If he’d been drinking, he might not have the sense, any longer, to realise it was a terrifyingly bad idea. She could break a leg or worse ...

  “If she is of stout heart,” Fraser said, “she will walk forward.”

  I’m not letting you beat me, George thought. She took a step forward, and another, and another ... and then the plank gave way. There was no time to do more than take a breath before she toppled forward and landed, face-first, on something soft and yielding. She was stunned, she realised dully, but unharmed. Fuck you, you bastard. I fucking won.

  “She is of stout heart,” someone said. It sounded like Randy, but George was too stunned to be sure. “Help her up.”

  George felt hands helping her back to her feet, then pulling at her hood. It came free, revealing a makeshift plank hanging over a comfortable mattress. She looked around to see Fraser, Randy and Honoraria grinning at her. All three of them were wearing black robes.

  “Turn around,” Honoraria said. “You’re nearly done.”

  “Thank you,” George said, as Honoraria cut the plastic tie away from her wrists. Her wrists ached; they were covered in ugly red marks, which she did her best to smooth away. “Is that it?”

  “More or less,” Honoraria said. Fraser and Randy turned and walked away, while Honoraria passed George a black robe of her own. “You did better than me, I think. I pissed myself when I walked the plank.”

  She snickered. “And you really did a number on the hose.”

  George pulled her robe over her head, hoping the aches in her wrists would be gone by the morning. She had the feeling any marks would be difficult to explain to her superiors, even though they would have presumably gone through the same rites themselves. Honoraria watched her calmly, then held out a hand. George shook her head as she took a step forward, making sure she could walk properly. Her legs didn't feel as though they were working right.

  “If you need a few minutes to gather yourself,” Honoraria whispered, “we can tell them we’re powdering our noses.”

  “No, thank you,” George said. She walked through the hatch and down the corridor towards the sleeping compartment. “How did you walk me around?”

  “We went around the corridor a few times while everyone else hastily changed the room,” Honoraria explained. “Couldn’t take you out of middy country, of course.”

  “Of course,” George echoed.

  Honoraria led her into the sleeping compartment, which was cramped. The remaining midshipmen were crammed together, cheering loudly. Someone put a glass in her hand as Fraser called for a toast; she lifted it to her lips and took a careful sip, only to have Honoraria grab the glass and tip it upwards so she drank more than she’d intended. It tasted like paint stripper, she decided; she gagged on the taste, feeling her mouth going numb, then pushed the glass aside before she could drink any more. Turning up for duty with a hangover would be disastrous.

  “Just take a sobering pill before you turn in for the night,” Honoraria advised. “That’s what I did.”

  “Hey, you did great,” Randy said. He slapped George on the right shoulder, hard enough to sting. “I don’t think there’s been a better show since ...”

  “Since that one with Midshipman Flowers,” Honoraria said. She giggled as she took another swig of her drink. “He started to pray, loudly, right in the middle of the plank. It tipped and he almost hit the bulkhead.”

  “Yeah, that was funny,” Randy agreed. “And Nathan! You did great too!”

  George lo
oked at Nathan, who was sporting a black eye. “What happened to you?”

  “He pushed forward too fast,” Fraser said. “Nearly got decked by accident.”

  “Never mind,” Honoraria said. “I meant to ask, George, why George? Did you read too many Enid Blyton books as a little girl?”

  George flushed, hesitating. She wasn't sure she wanted to tell them that little story, even though it was nothing too embarrassing. It would only remind Fraser of why he disliked her in the first place. Who knew if the other midshipmen felt the same way too? But they’d accepted her now ... would that change, she asked herself, if she reminded them of her background?

  “It’s a stupid story,” she said, finally. “Do you really want to hear it?”

  “It can't be worse than Midshipman Lombardi’s claims about the Swedish Woman’s Swimming Team,” Randy said. “Although that story did keep us warm at nights.”

  “Shut it,” Fraser growled. “I want to hear the story.”

  “Very well,” George said, throwing caution to the winds. “When I was young, my mother tried to groom me for the season. I’d ...”

  She broke off as Randy laughed, the others joining in a moment later. The aristocratic girls who had their seasons in London were sweet dainty things, too fragile to stand up to a gust of wind ... or so she’d charged, during one of many arguments with her sister. George had been born and bred to the aristocracy, yet she knew she could hardly pass for a debutante attending court for the first time. The combination of short hair and muscled body would get her laughed out of London, if she’d chosen to go.

  “She tried to groom me for the season,” George repeated. “And every day, she would whine and moan and call me Georgina. I came to hate it. And eventually I only started answering to George.”

  Fraser leaned forward. “Because you want to be a man?”

  “Because I’d like to be more than a pretty bauble on some man’s arm,” George said, keeping her anger under tight control. She just knew he’d make fun of her. “Because I want to be something for myself, not for my family.”

  “And yet your connections make it hard for anyone to know what you’ve earned,” Fraser pointed out. “Did you actually score so highly on your exams or did someone twist them in your favour?”

  “My family would not arrange for me to get high marks,” George said.

  “I hope you’re right,” Fraser said. He met her eyes, just for a second. There was a dark burning hatred and resentment flickering in his gaze, then he raised his voice. “I hope that those of you who are on duty in an hour haven’t been drinking. If you have, go to sickbay now and ask for a pill.”

  “Oh, sir,” Randy moaned.

  “No excuses,” Fraser said. “Unless you want to explain why you’re half-drunk on duty.”

  George shuddered. The XO was a formidable woman. She had no doubt that anyone who turned up drunk on duty would regret it for the rest of their short and miserable lives.

  “Come with me,” Fraser ordered. He led her out of the sleeping compartment and into the private room. It was a mess, pieces of plastic and rubber scattered on the floor. Her uniform - and Nathan’s - had been neatly folded and placed on the shelf, next to a handful of unmarked bottles. “You’re going to clean this compartment, then the sleeping compartment, once the remaining middies hit their racks.”

  George opened her mouth to protest - she was on duty in seven hours - then closed it again. There was no point. She’d gone through the whole rite, yet Fraser still didn't like or trust her. All she could do was keep going and hope he’d get over it, eventually.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. She thought about asking him if she could recover her clothes, then decided it was pointless. “I’ll get right on it.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Bridge, this is the Secondary Bridge,” Susan said. “Confirm disconnect from main command network.”

  “Disconnection confirmed,” Lieutenant Theodore Parkinson said. “I have the conn.”

  “Very good,” Susan said. She glanced at the secondary tactical console. “Commander Mason, run Tactical Program Alpha-One.”

  “Aye, Commander,” Mason said. “Tactical Program Alpha-One running ... now.”

  Susan smiled to herself as the main display lit up with a handful of red icons: a Tadpole fleet carrier and seven escort ships. Humanity didn't have much data on their performance - the Tadpoles were as careful about live-fire exercises as their human counterparts - but MI6 had made a number of very good guesses. She reminded herself, firmly, that the spooks might be wrong. The Tadpoles had held the firepower advantage through most of the war, after all, and produced a whole new starship design in record time.

  And we’d better hope we don’t go back to war against them, she thought, as the enemy ships shook down into formation and slipped into an intercept course. They were disturbingly formidable enemies.

  “Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam,” she said. “Tactical analysis?”

  The young woman started, clearly surprised by the question. “Ah ... they’re planning to swamp us with starfighters?”

  “Certainly looks that way,” Susan agreed, deadpan. “And the reason they’re not launching starfighters?”

  Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam frowned. “They know we don’t have any of our own, so they’re conserving their life support packs rather than launching a CSP.”

  “Good,” Susan agreed. She raised her voice. “Red alert! All hands to battlestations!”

  “Battlestations, aye,” Mason said, as alarms howled through the compartment. “Enemy carrier is launching starfighters. I say again, enemy carrier is launching starfighters.”

  Susan sucked in her breath as the display sparkled with deadly new icons. The Tadpoles hadn't drawn any distinction between fighters and bombers, back during the war; their plasma weapons had burned through thin-skinned human ships and ripped through their innards with ease. Now, with solid-state armour the order of the day, it was quite possible that the Tadpoles had designed a bomber-class starfighter of their own. They’d need something to give them an edge against heavily-armoured ships.

  “Alter course,” she ordered. Now the Tadpoles had launched their starfighters, they’d be doing everything they could to stay out of the battleship’s range. “Lock in a pursuit course and ramp up the drives.”

  “Aye, Commander,” Midshipman Bosworth said. He’d taken the helm console, after completing the first set of exams. “Pursuit course laid in.”

  Susan smiled, grimly. No one was entirely sure just how fast the newer classes of Tadpole starships could move, but unless they’d made a radically new breakthrough it was unlikely the fleet carrier could outrace Vanguard. Her escorts could, she assumed, yet they’d have to abandon their charge in order to escape. Their enemies had to hope their starfighters would be enough to cripple the battleship before she forced her way into weapons range.

  “Enemy starfighters approaching engagement range,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam said. She sounded nervous, even though it was only a simulation. But then, a poor showing during a simulation could slow her career, perhaps even torpedo it. “Point defence is online, ready to fire.”

  “Fire at will,” Susan ordered. “I say again, fire at will.”

  The enemy starfighters fell out of their ordered formation, then ducked and weaved their way into a chaotic pattern that made it harder to score a direct hit. Civilians would stare at the formation and call it madness - no officer would propose it for a flypast unless he wanted to be relieved of duty and reassigned to yet another mining complex - but it was the only way to have any chance of survival. A single hit with a plasma cannon, even a glancing hit, would be enough to obliterate a fragile starfighter. Flying a predictable course meant certain death.

  And the odds of scoring a hit are lower than the civilians assume, Susan thought, as Vanguard’s point defence opened fire. Space is vast and starfighters are tiny.

  “Five enemy starfighters destroyed,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam reported. Her voi
ce was rising, slightly. “The remainder are closing in on our hull.”

  “Stand by to switch point defence to antimissile duty,” Susan ordered. She’d programmed the simulation, but she’d added an element of randomness to the situation. It was just possible that the enemy starfighters would have missiles as well as plasma guns. “All hands, brace for incoming ...”

  “Ah ... missiles away,” Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam said. She sounded hesitant, too hesitant; Susan made a mental note to discuss it with her later. Certain reports took priority, even if it meant interrupting one’s senior officers. “Impact in nine ... eight ... seven ...”