Her console pinged. “Emergency message,” she said, feeling a sudden flicker of tension running down her spine. A real emergency message, too. “I’m plotting a course.”
“A pilot - an American pilot - has bailed out of his starfighter,” the Boatswain said, his fingers dancing over his console. “He suffered a power surge, apparently. His plasma cannons are threatening to overload.”
George winced as she gunned the engines, sending the shuttle hurtling towards the source of the distress call. Starfighter plasma cannons had a tendency to overload if they were allowed to overheat through rapid fire, although she wasn't sure just what the Americans had been shooting at with live weapons. Perhaps it was a drill ... no, every distress signal sent as part of a drill had to be clearly marked as such. The Royal Navy couldn't afford the risk of growing too used to fake distress calls.
American protocols might be different, she thought, as her sensors flashed an alert. The starfighter was very definitely overheating. No, it isn’t a drill.
“Prep the airlock,” she ordered. The pilot had thrown himself into space, rather than remain with his craft. An explosion must be imminent. Very few spacers would take the risk of being lost forever, although the risk was very limited compared to the certainty of being toasted if he stayed too close to the doomed starfighter. “Does he have an EVA pack?”
“Doesn't look like it,” the Boatswain said. “He’s not in any sort of controlled flight.”
George hesitated. Technically, she should remain at the helm, but the Boatswain was a far superior pilot. And this wasn't a drill ...
“I’m going to grab him,” she said, as she checked her shipsuit. It wasn't anything like as reliable as a full-sized spacesuit, but it would suffice. She snapped an EVA pack into place as she spoke. “Take us away from the craft as soon as I’ve got a firm grip.”
“Understood,” the Boatswain said.
George nodded, locked her helmet in place and hurried to the airlock. The inner hatch hissed open, revealing a cramped compartment barely large enough for three or four grown men, assuming they were wearing nothing more than their underwear. Her lips quirked in amusement - it reminded her of one of the more absurd Stellar Star movies - as she fastened her tether to the airlock, then keyed the hatch. It hissed open, allowing the atmosphere to gust out into interplanetary space. She tumbled out with it, rather than trying to stay in the airlock. There was no time to be careful.
For a moment, the sheer vastness of the universe held her in its grip. Groundhogs never understood; hell, there were spacers who hated the very thought of going EVA. It was so immense and she was so tiny ... even Vanguard, the largest ship in the fleet, was nothing more than a mote of dust compared to the Milky Way alone. All of a sudden, she understood why there were promising cadets at the academy who’d washed out after their first EVAs ...
She pushed the thought aside as she scanned space for the American pilot. His suit wasn't visible to the naked eye, but her helmet HUD could track the distress beacon. She keyed her EVA pack on an intercept course, hoping she had a long enough tether to reach the pilot without having to ask the Boatswain to alter the shuttle’s trajectory. He came into view faster than she’d believed possible, tumbling helplessly through space ... she caught hold of his arm, praying he wasn't panicking. Panic killed, her instructors had warned her ...
“Hit it,” she said.
The tether grew taut; she half-expected it to snap before she realised it was pulling her and the American away from the starfighter. She twisted, trying to see it with her naked eye, but she couldn't pick it out, even with the HUD pointing her in the right direction. Something twinkled against the darkness ...
“She lost containment,” the Boatswain said. “She’s gone.”
George was almost disappointed. She'd expected something more spectacular, although anything bigger might have killed both of them. Shaking her head, she keyed the tether and allowed it to pull them back into the airlock, which hissed closed as soon as they were through the hatch. She motioned for the American to keep his helmet on as the gravity took hold of them, then checked the telltales on his suit. Everything seemed fine ... she waited until the air pressure equalised, then took off her own helmet. The American followed suit moments later.
“You’re an angel,” he said, in a strong accent she recognised from the movies. “That could have been very bad.”
“Someone else would have come to get you,” George said. The American was darker than the XO, although his eyes were a rather odd purple. Hadn't that been a fashion in America, once upon a time? “Are you all right?”
“Merely annoyed with the deckhands,” the American said. He stuck out a hand. “Malcolm, Malcolm Douglas.”
“George Fitzwilliam,” George said. She shook the American’s hand, then led him into the cabin. It didn’t look as though the American recognised her name, but she couldn't put a name to the highest-ranking American naval officer either. “We’ll have you back to Enterprise in a jiffy.”
“No hurry,” Douglas said. He glanced around the cabin, then winked at her. “Can I buy you a drink in the bar?”
George hesitated. “I don’t know if I’ll get any shore leave,” she said, finally. Even if shore leave was authorised for the midshipmen, Fraser might find an excuse to keep her from getting a few hours away from the ship. “But if I do, I’ll give you a call.”
“There’s supposed to be a good bar on the surface,” Douglas assured her, as he took one of the rear seats. “I don’t think there’s anything else for the settlers to do, save watch the terraforming package do its job.”
“Poor bastards,” George said. The settlement was tiny. Having a hundred crewmen visiting for shore leave would probably overwhelm the facilities. “But I’ll give you my private v-mail address and you can message me.”
And hope Fraser doesn't find out about it, she added. There was very little true privacy in middy country, but they treasured what little they had. He’ll tease me about it for hours.
She took her seat and powered up the drives, checking the sensors to make sure they had a clear flight path to Enterprise. A pair of shuttles were heading towards where the starfighter had been, although George would have been surprised if they recovered more than a handful of atoms. There were certainly no large chunks of debris to inspect. She gunned the drives and sent the shuttle racing towards the American carrier while the Boatswain called ahead for landing clearance.
“We’ll make sure to copy all our files to you,” she called back, as the American carrier grew larger in front of them. “Do you want anything else?”
“The investigators will no doubt let you know,” Douglas said. He remained seated until the shuttle had actually docked, unlike some of the others they’d flown around the fleet. “And thank you, once again.”
“You’re welcome,” George called.
She watched Douglas step out of the hatch, then closed and locked it before separating from the American carrier and heading back into space. The American ship didn't look that different from a British carrier, although she couldn’t help noticing that she had eight flight decks instead of six. George wasn't sure if they allowed the Americans to launch more starfighters or served as easier targets for enemy fire. A warhead detonating inside the launch tubes might not destroy the ship, but it would certainly render the tube unusable.
“We have to head back to the mothership,” the Boatswain said.
George sagged, despite herself. Going back to Vanguard meant going back to Fraser, going back to enduring his torments. She kept telling herself not to give up, she kept telling herself that she’d win his respect, yet ... yet sometimes it felt as if she were fighting an uphill battle, one she was doomed to lose. Perhaps she should go to the XO after all ...
The Boatswain coughed. “Would you like to talk about it?”
George blinked. “Talk about what?”
“Whatever is bothering you,” the Boatswain said. “I can tell you’re having p
roblems.”
“I’m not,” George lied. “I just ...”
“I don't think you fell instantly in love with that Yank,” the Boatswain said. There was something in his tone that suggested she’d disappointed him. “You certainly didn't fall so deeply that the mere thought of losing him depressed you.”
George blushed, furiously. “It’s not like that,” she said. “I ... I liked him, but ...”
The Boatswain smiled. “So what is bothering you? I am here to advise.”
That, George knew, was true. The Boatswain was a father to the men and women under his command, particularly the ones young enough to be his real children. She’d heard him offering them advice, ranging from quiet words of encouragement to pointing out, sternly, just where they’d gone wrong. And yet, advising her wasn’t his job. She was, technically, his superior officer ...
And perhaps it was time to throw caution to the winds.
“I have a problem,” she admitted. “The first middy hates me.”
Once she started to talk, the entire story seemed to just leap out of her mouth. The Boatswain listened, saying nothing, as she described how he’d treated her, from the extra duties to penalising her for even the slightest mistake. Fraser didn't seem to treat Nathan the same way, even though Nathan was just as green as George herself ...
“He’s screwed,” the Boatswain said, when she’d finished.
George stared at him. “How?”
The Boatswain met her eyes. “How long has Fraser been a midshipman?”
“Six years,” George said. She’d looked it up. “But only six ...”
“Most midshipmen are promoted to lieutenant within their second or third year of service,” the Boatswain noted. “It keeps a steady turnover of midshipmen in middy country - the midshipmen who are not promoted are often reassigned, in the hopes they’ll have a chance to shine on another ship. The post of first middy is therefore passed down as the senior midshipman jumps up the ladder.”
He clicked the autopilot on, then turned to face her. “A midshipman who remains in that rank for longer than four years has a problem,” he added. “Have you ever heard of the lemon car dilemma?”
George shook her head, wordlessly.
“It was something of a problem when I was a kid,” the Boatswain said. “If you wanted to buy a new car, well, it could cost something around twenty thousand pounds. Most of us couldn’t hope to afford it, of course; there were laws against lending money to people with poor financial prospects. That was after the economic crash, of course ...”
He shrugged. “Assuming you did manage to buy a new car, its value instantly declined by at least a third,” he told her. “Why do you think that was the case?”
George considered it. “Because it was no longer new?”
“True,” the Boatswain said. “But there’s another reason. No one would sell a new car unless there was something wrong with it. Therefore, no one would buy a second-hand car when it had barely been used. The more pristine it seemed, the more suspicious they’d be ...”
“And a midshipman who’s served six years without being promoted ... people assume there’s something wrong with him,” George said. She saw what he’d meant, now. “There’s no hope of either being promoted or being transferred?”
“Correct,” the Boatswain said. “And young Mr. Fraser has the added humiliation of watching younger midshipmen being promoted ahead of him.”
George stared down at her hands. “That doesn't excuse him for picking on me!”
“No, it doesn't,” the Boatswain said. He met her eyes, evenly. “People lie; not just to others, which is marginally understandable, but to themselves. Mr. Fraser has become convinced that the reason he hasn't been promoted is because countless others, all far less qualified than himself, are being jumped ahead of him. He’s told himself that so often, I suspect, that trying to convince him otherwise would be a waste of time. He hates you because he thinks you’ll be promoted as soon as it’s legally possible. And you’ll take a slot he could have filled himself.”
“But no one is using influence on my behalf,” George protested.
The Boatswain looked ... irked. “Can you prove it?”
“You can't prove a negative,” the Boatswain said. “Mr. Fraser knows he isn't likely to see promotion, not now he’s been a midshipman for too long. And the hell of it is that he isn't a bad first middy, as long as he keeps his head out of his ass. He really should have been promoted a long time ago.”
George met his eyes. “Why wasn't he?”
“That isn't a question I can answer,” the Boatswain said. “And I advise” - his voice hardened - “you to be careful who you ask.”
“I could order you to tell me,” George said.
Oddly, the Boatswain seemed pleased by her remark. “I would have to refuse,” he said, “but at least you thought of it.”
George looked down at her hands. Who could she ask? The XO wouldn’t answer, she was sure, and she didn't dare ask the captain. Commander Mason had seemed nice enough - and he had served on Vanguard for two years - but she doubted they could sit down and have a pleasant chat. And none of the midshipmen would know, not if there had been a steady turnover. If something had happened, early in Fraser’s career, they might not know what it had been ...
“I won’t order you to do anything,” she said, “but please could you tell me what I should do?”
“You have several options,” the Boatswain said. “You could always complain to your relatives.”
“That would let him win,” George said, stubbornly. “I want to make it on my own.”
“He has to,” the Boatswain said. He took a breath. “You could just tough it out, if you wish, or you could challenge him directly.”
George frowned. “A challenge?”
“Midshipmen are expected to settle any disputes amongst themselves,” the Boatswain said, simply. “That’s what the first middy is for. Bringing in higher authority ... well, let’s say that rarely ends well for everyone. It’s only done in the worst possible situations.”
“And this isn't?”
“No, it isn’t,” the Boatswain said. “There was a scandal, ten years before the war, when a first middy was prostituting the midshipmen under his command.”
George stared at him. “How ... how did that happen?”
“It’s amazing what you can get away with if you have the nerve,” the Boatswain said. “I suspect the newcomers assigned to the ship were bullied into working for him. He was hanged, along with three of his accomplices, and most of the ship’s crew were dishonourably discharged. Fraser, whatever his faults, isn't anything like them.”
“No,” George agreed. She’d been naked in front of Fraser, but he hadn't tried to do anything to her. The academy tutors had made it clear that relationships between midshipmen who shared the same sleeping compartment were forbidden. “He’s not that bad.”
“Then you can get through to him,” the Boatswain said. “But some people need to be smacked in the face before they learn.”
George sighed. She had a lot to look up in the files, it seemed. “Why?”
“Human nature,” the Boatswain said. “We are programmed to respect strength and determination. Submission, surrender, appeal to higher authority ... we emotionally scorn them, even when rationality tells us otherwise. Why do you think there are so many remakes of Captain America?”
“He never surrenders,” George said.
“He never surrendered,” the Boatswain said. “That’s why we like him. Even when he was a skinny little runt, he never surrendered.”
Chapter Seventeen
“He froze up in the middle of a fucking war zone,” Susan hissed.
“The battle was won,” Mason pointed out. “And we acquitted ourselves well in the later battles.”
Susan bit off a curse she knew her father would have slapped her for saying out loud. The captain had been lucky, amazingly lucky. Any halfway competent post-battle analysis would h
ave turned up proof that Captain Blake had frozen, but Admiral Boskone had been too pleased to order a full investigation. The mock skirmishes that the Royal Navy had lost would draw much more attention, at least for the next few months. And then ...
“If we take it to the admiral,” she said, “what happens next?”
“We get in deep shit for not reporting it earlier,” Mason said, bluntly. “Or we get steamrollered by Captain Blake’s connections for daring to question his competence.”
Susan stared down at her hands, feeling helpless. She knew how to deal with crewmen, junior officers and balky machinery, but the academy had never taught her how to deal with a captain who was ... what? A coward? Mentally unstable? Promoted well past his competence level? All of a sudden, she thought she understood precisely why Commander Bothell had deserted. He’d spent the last five years of his career covering for his superior.
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