Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7)

by Christopher Nuttall

  George scowled as Honoraria ran her hands over George’s shirt and shorts. “What is the point of this?”

  “The fight is bare-knuckled,” Honoraria said, as she stepped backwards. “Neither of you are allowed weapons, apart from your hands and feet.”

  “Oh,” George said. Good thing she hadn't tried to slip something into her clothing, as scanty as it was. “Are there any actual rules?”

  Honoraria gave her a sharp look. “You didn't bother to look them up before throwing down the challenge?”

  She went on before George could answer. “You fight with your hands and feet until one of you yields or is knocked out,” she added. “Try not to kill him, but otherwise don’t hold back and don’t have any illusions about fighting a fair fight. If he gives you a shot at his balls, take it.”

  “I don’t want to think about touching his balls,” George protested.

  “Then you better had start thinking about it,” Honoraria snapped. “I know Fraser; he’s tough, fast and very strong. You let him get you in a grip and you’re fucked - and not in a good way. Don’t even think about trying to trade blows because he has a colossal advantage. Get in there - go for the eyes, go for the balls - and keep moving.”

  She shook her head. “How much unarmed combat training did you take?”

  “Just the academy classes,” George admitted.

  “You’re fucked,” Honoraria said. “Fraser’s been sparring with some of the marines, for heaven’s sake. And he survived the experience.”

  George swallowed. “Shit.”

  “Quite,” Honoraria said. She glanced down at her wristcom. “It’s time.”

  She turned and walked through the hatch. George hesitated, her legs refusing to move properly, and then forced herself to follow Honoraria. She’d never been in the boxing ring before - some of the crewmen boxed, but the marines tended to keep themselves to themselves - yet she didn't feel like looking around. Fraser was standing at the other end of the compartment, wearing nothing more than a loincloth. She couldn't help thinking that he looked like a barbarian hero out of a comic book.

  “Well,” Fraser said. He eyed her, coldly. She had to fight the urge to just stumble backwards. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” George said. She’d managed to get herself into this mess; if she couldn't win, she could at least make sure he knew he’d been in a fight. She tried not to look at the muscles rippling on his arms as he stepped over the line on the deck and into the ring. “I’m ready.”

  “Good,” Fraser said. He nodded to Nathan, who was standing beside four of the other midshipmen. The remainder of the chamber was deserted. “Nathan will blow the whistle once we’re at opposite sides of the ring. From that moment on, if you want to stop, all you have to do is throw yourself to your knees and beg for mercy.”

  “Yes, sir,” George said.

  Her legs felt like jelly, but she somehow managed to step over the line and enter the ring, taking up her position. Fraser studied her for a long moment - he was examining her muscles, she reasoned - before swaggering over to the other side. George braced herself as best as she could, trying to recall lessons she’d barely mastered, as Fraser nodded impatiently to Nathan. George’s friend gave her a grim look, then blew the whistle.

  Fraser met her eyes, trying to stare her down. George felt a sudden flicker of confidence, recalling high-class afternoon teas she’d been forced to endure. The family’s elderly relatives might have had only a single brain cell between them, but they practically latched on to any hint of improper behaviour and attacked. He might be able to beat her to within an inch of her life, she thought, yet he couldn't psyche her out. Lying with a straight face was one of the skills she’d mastered as a very young girl.

  There was a pause, then Fraser came forward. He wasn't covering himself, George noted, but it was clear that he didn't need to watch his back. She darted forward, trying to win herself some room, then ducked back as he threw at ugly punch at her head. Maybe she was faster than him, but she doubted it was enough. And yet, there was an opportunity ...

  She threw a punch of her own, realising the danger a fraction of a second too late. Fraser caught her arm, twisted her and practically threw her entire body right across the ring. It was all she could do to land properly, without coming down so hard the fight ended there and then; she lunged to the side as Fraser leapt at her, kicking out with his foot. He would never have dared try that against a trained opponent, but he’d probably scanned her file and knew her weaknesses. Unarmed combat had never been one of her skills.

  He turned to face her, keeping his fists up in a boxing pose. George clenched her own fists, then moved to the side as he hurled a punch at her throat, throwing a jab of her own at his face. He lifted his arm to block the blow, grunting when she struck him, then slapped out at her chest. The blow stung, but didn't do any serious harm. Fraser snorted and turned again, punching out at her. George jumped backwards, looking for another opportunity to land a blow. She thought she was faster than him, but he was fast enough himself for that not to matter. Fraser paced her, then darted forward. George couldn't move quickly enough to keep him from grabbing hold, spinning her around and hurling her to the deck. She rolled over just in time to keep him from landing on her, jumping upwards and landing a punch right on his nose. It didn't break, she thought, but she was sure he’d felt it.

  Fraser growled, bloody murder written in his eyes even as blood dripped from his nose and splashed on the deck. George almost broke then, almost threw herself to her knees, but something inside her refused to let her give up. He hurled himself forward, faster than she would have believed possible, and ploughed right into her, shoving her back down to the deck. George cried out in pain as she hit the ground, feeling his hands slamming down on her chest, just above her breasts, as they made their way to her throat. She clawed at him, trying to hit his groin or his eyes; he caught her wrists and shoved them back to the deck, holding them above her head with one hand while the other held her throat.

  “Yield,” he growled.

  George tried to struggle, but his grip was too tight. The weight of his body, pressing down on her, made it impossible to move. She couldn't even draw up her knee to kick him; he simply knew, all too well, just how to hold her down. And the grip on her throat was tightening ...

  “Yield,” he repeated.

  Panic boiled at the corner of her mind. He wouldn't actually kill her, would he? But she’d provoked him, and she’d probably ruined what was left of his career, and ... she refused to submit. If she could survive a depressurisation chamber at the academy ... but a depressurisation chamber had never glared at her with such hatred. The smart move was to give up, and yet ...”

  “Fuck you,” she managed. Her voice sounded odd in her ears, as if there was something wrong with it. “I won’t.”

  “You’re beaten,” Fraser insisted. His weight shifted, slightly. “You cannot win!”

  “Fuck you,” George said, again. It was growing harder to breath. “I ...”

  He lowered his head until their eyes met. She stared into the face of hatred, into the face of someone she was sure would kill her ... and yet she refused to submit. Her body was aching in pain - she had a nasty feeling she had a handful of broken bones - but she wasn't about to give in. They stared at each other for a long chilling moment, then he let go of her throat and rolled off her. George stared at him, one hand moving to rub her throat. It hurt, but there didn't look to be any permanent damage. Indeed, she was starting to think that she might have a great many bruises, yet nothing was actually broken.

  Fraser touched his nose, gingerly. “You didn't break.”

  George stared at him. There was something odd in his voice too, something ... respect?

  She forced herself to sit upright. There were nasty bruises on her chest and bare legs, and her shirt had been badly torn, but otherwise she was intact. And yet, he could have killed her, or won the challenge by beating her head into the deck until she blacked
out. It was hard to move, but she didn't want to be too close to him if he changed his mind.

  “I could kill you, but I couldn't beat you,” Fraser said. He sounded almost as though each word was torn from an unwilling mouth. “Congratulations.”

  He rose and held out a hand. George took it, feeling her body protest as he helped her to her feet. She honestly wasn’t sure if she should go to sickbay or not - or, for that matter, if Fraser should go. Was his nose broken or was he merely having a nosebleed? The pain in her hand suggested she’d hit him quite hard ...

  You’re dazed, she realised.

  “Help her to sickbay,” Fraser ordered. It took George a moment to realise that Nathan had stepped over the line and come to join them. “I’ll reorganise the duty shifts so she won’t have anything until tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Yes, sir,” Nathan said.

  George forced herself to walk upright, despite the throbbing pain, as he helped her to leave the gym. She was damned if she was collapsing now ... blood was staining her shirt; she glanced at it blearily, trying to determine where she was bleeding, before realising that it wasn't her blood. Fraser had been on top of her, hadn't he?

  “I don’t know if you won,” Nathan said, as they stumbled down the corridor, “but I don’t think you lost either.”

  “Yeah,” George managed. It was suddenly very hard to stay upright. “There has to be an easier way to earn respect.”

  ***

  The midshipmen, for whatever reason, hadn't bothered to disable the monitors in the gym. It should have been beyond them, Susan knew, but she would have been surprised if someone who had been in the navy for as long as Midshipman Fraser didn't know how to evade the watching surveillance recorders where necessary. She’d watched, torn between the urge to intervene and the certain knowledge that events had to play out, as the two midshipmen had fought.

  “He wanted her to submit,” the Boatswain noted. “It would have been straightforward to knock her out.”

  Susan nodded, feeling a flicker of pride in her youngest midshipwoman. Demanding respect was futile, but once it was earned ... she had the feeling that Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam wasn't going to have any problems with Fraser in future, even though she’d technically lost the bout. Fraser had seen the real her.

  She looked at the Boatswain. “This was what you wanted, wasn't it?”

  “I pushed her in the right direction, yes,” the Boatswain said. He didn't bother to try to deny it. “She could let him beat her down, which would destroy her; she could ask her family for help, which would ruin her ... or she could try to convince him, face to face, that there was more to her than a name. And she did.”

  Susan nodded, remembering all the rebukes she’d had for fighting in school. The daughter of an immigrant would always have a harder time than others, even though she'd been born in the United Kingdom. Old memories ran deep, after all, and the Troubles had left Britain’s collective memory covered in scars. Teaching them to respect her, or at least to leave her alone, had been worth the punishments. But then, it had also disappointed her father ...

  She pushed the bitter guilt aside as she shut down the monitors. “I believe Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam is still assigned to you,” she said. “Make sure she isn't pushed too hard, if Doctor Chung allows her to leave sickbay. Midshipman Fraser is currently attached to the tactical section, I believe. I’ll have Commander Mason keep an eye on him.”

  “He’s not a bad person,” the Boatswain said.

  Susan snorted. There were worse people - far worse people - than Midshipman Fraser serving in the Royal Navy, but that didn’t excuse Fraser’s conduct. She understood his feelings - she could even sympathise with a man who felt he was trapped in a dead-end position - yet she couldn't condone bullying other midshipmen. Particularly one who had a powerful family ... perhaps, at some level, Fraser had hoped George would call her family for help. A dishonourable discharge would look very bad, but it wouldn't be quite the same as requesting a transfer or early separation.

  “Have a word or two with him when you get the chance,” she ordered. Fraser’s file was odd; he’d been transferred to Vanguard before she was commissioned, but there were gaps in the data that puzzled her. It wasn’t normal to transfer a middy to an incomplete battleship. He must have made a powerful enemy at some point ... a few hints in the right place and his career would be effectively stalemated. “Tell him to buck up and promotion will be considered.”

  Which will have to be justified, she thought, darkly. Fraser was right; he’d spent too long as a midshipman to be promoted, unless he did something very heroic. But a field promotion might be doable ...

  Her wristcom buzzed. “Commander, this is Parkinson. The admiral has sent us a message.”

  Susan sighed. An order to relieve the captain? An order to attend a court martial? Or ... what?

  “I see,” she said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “And it says?”

  “He’s ordering all captains and their XOs to attend a holographic conference, one hour from now,” Parkinson said. “And he wants all ships ready to depart within four hours. The exercises are now officially terminated.”

  Susan frowned. The war games still had another two days to run, with at least one final full-scale exercise being planned. Cancelling them now ... there had to be an emergency, but where? The Tadpole border? Or maybe the Indians had decided to restart the last small colonial war.

  “Understood,” she said. She felt her frown deepen. Organising the games had taken nearly a year of diplomatic negotiation. Admiral Boskone - and Admiral Pournelle - would need a very good excuse for cancelling them before they were finished. “Did he say why?”

  “No, Commander,” Parkinson said. “But the message is very clear on the importance of departing on schedule.”

  “Order all stations to prepare for departure,” Susan ordered. She’d have to find the captain and invite him into the holographic conference room. “And tell the logistics section to snatch what we need from the fleet train. I have a bad feeling about this.”

  She glanced at the Boatswain. “See to your department too,” she added. “We may need it.”

  ***

  “No major injuries,” Doctor Chung said. “But I advise you to make your excuses a little less blatantly untruthful.”

  “Thank you, sir,” George said. She stood in front of the mirror and gazed at her naked body, covered in blue and purple marks. They’d vanish quickly, the doctor had assured her, but she’d be aching for the next couple of days. “And I’m sorry.”

  “Tripping and falling down a hatch tends to leave a different set of injuries,” the doctor told her, sternly. “And your hand was quite clearly used to hit something solid.”

  George thanked him again, then dressed quickly and headed for the door. Outside, Nathan was waiting for her, holding a datapad in one hand.

  He rose as she approached. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

  “The good news,” George said.

  Nathan smirked. “The good news is that the fleet is apparently being reassigned, although no one knows where yet,” he said. “The bad news is that I’m on toilet duty tonight.”

  He held out the datapad. It was showing the duty roster.

  “He changed it,” George said, in surprise. Fraser had delighted in assigning her to the worst jobs, but now they were evenly distributed. “I ...”

  “I guess you won,” Nathan said. He slapped her shoulder. “Congratulations.”

  Chapter Twenty

  It was customary in the Royal Navy, Susan knew, to have all non-emergency meetings face-to-face. The Admiralty believed that actually meeting one’s fellow officers was good for morale and, perhaps more importantly, made it easier for one to get the measure of one’s fellows. Susan had never been so sure about the former, but the latter would have been a very good idea under other circumstances. As it was, she was quietly relieved that Admiral Boskone had ordered a holographic meeting. It was easier
to cover any mistakes.

  She followed the captain into the conference room and frowned in surprise as she noticed the foreigners who’d been invited to the meeting. The Americans were understandable, she supposed, but Admiral Boskone had invited the French, Russians, Japanese and Indians, even though the Indians had been Britain’s enemies only a decade ago. Excitement ran down the back of her spine, warring with fear. The only reason she could think of for gathering every commanding officer in the system was alien contact - or alien war.

  We’re not far from the borders, she thought, grimly. If the Tadpoles have decided to restart the war.

  “Sit down, Commander,” Captain Blake said. He sounded nervous, one hand playing with his tie as he took his own seat. It was very lucky for him that the conference was purely electronic. The Admiral would not be amused if the battleship’s commander fidgeted during a physical meeting. “Let’s see what Admiral Boskone has for us.”