Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7)

by Christopher Nuttall

  But there was no sign of the aliens.

  “They can't use the alien-grade tramlines,” Mason said.

  We’re going to need a new name for them, Susan thought. There is more than one alien race now.

  She took a long breath. “Stand down from red alert, but remain at tactical alert,” she ordered, curtly. “The fleet is to cloak, then proceed to” - she tapped out a location, picking a spot two light hours from the tramline at random - “this location.”

  “Aye, Commander,” Mason said.

  Susan nodded, slowly. The aliens might be altering position, moving up or down the tramline to avoid an ambush. Assuming that was what they were doing, the fleet had at least half an hour to hide before the aliens showed themselves. And if they picked a random location, the aliens would have to spend hours looking for them ... unless, of course, they had some super tactical sensors that the Royal Navy had never even considered.

  And if they have that big an edge, she thought, they would have kicked our asses.

  Oh, her own thoughts mocked her. And they didn't kick our asses?

  “And then set up a secure conference for commanding officers,” she added, “and invite Prince Henry to join.”

  “Yes, Commander,” Parkinson said.

  And hope they don’t order me relieved of command at once, Susan thought, silently. Because just how many regulations have I broken in the last hour?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Captain Owen Harper said. The American’s accent was strong enough to suggest he was born on New Washington, rather than Earth. “You stunned your own commanding officer and stole command of the entire fleet.”

  Henry winced, inwardly, as Commander Susan Onarina wilted. It was clear she was exhausted, pushed right to the limits of her endurance. No naval officer in recorded history had had to deal with so many problems at once, from relieving her commanding officer for gross incompetence to fighting a running battle to escape from an unexpected threat. He couldn't help admiring her, even though he’d served under both Theodore Smith and James Fitzwilliam. But then, they’d both been secure in their positions when they’d gone to war.

  “Yes, sir,” Susan said. “That is reasonably accurate.”

  The assembled commanding officers - or, rather, their holograms - stared at her. Henry wondered, absently, just what was going through their minds. They should be old enough to know that recriminations were pointless, not least because the fleet was still in terrible danger, but he’d been an ambassador long enough to know that some people had no sense of priorities. Questioning Susan’s actions could wait until the fleet was safely back home, where the recordings could be analysed in detail ...

  “You should have passed command to the senior officer,” Harper snapped. Henry rather suspected that Harper was that officer, although fleet command was something of a poisoned chalice under the circumstances. “You certainly shouldn’t have taken command for yourself.”

  “It would have caused further confusion at the worst possible time,” Susan said. There was a curious deadness in her voice, as if she was too tired to feel anything. “And Vanguard survived blows that vaporised other ships.”

  Henry shivered. New Russia had been a curbstomp, but the Battle of UXS-469 hadn't been much better. At least they’d fought back ... no, the Tadpoles had fought back. And over thirty thousand human naval personnel were dead. God alone knew how many Tadpoles had died in the battle. They’d sailed merrily right into an ambush and escaped by the skin of their teeth.

  “That wasn't your decision to make,” Harper insisted. “Admiral Pournelle ...”

  “Was dead,” Captain Fletcher snapped. “She did the right thing at the right time.”

  “She’s a commander,” Harper said. “She isn't even a commanding officer ...”

  “She is now,” Henry said, calmly.

  Harper’s image seemed to flicker with outrage. “I confess I know nothing about your place in the Royal Navy, Your Highness, but I know for a fact that you have no position in the United States Navy,” he said. His voice dripped sarcasm. “It isn't your task to retroactively condone her actions.”

  Henry met his gaze. “I am not speaking in my role as a formal naval personage, Captain,” he said. “I am speaking in my role as Earth’s Ambassador, with powers granted to me by the First Contact Treaty. All human starships, including yours, are under my authority during any human-alien interactions.”

  “You are not a commanding officer,” Harper snapped.

  “No, but I am the highest authority until we get back in touch with Earth,” Henry said, firmly. “There are two precedents, both of which involve American officers assuming command over British and French warships. Your legal officers can find them for you in the records, if you wish to look for case law. Right now, until we return to friendly space, I am officially condoning Commander Onarina’s actions and granting her a temporary promotion to Captain.”

  “That exceeds your authority by quite some distance,” Harper observed.

  “Actually, there are precedents,” Henry said. He silently blessed Janelle for making him study all the little details hidden in the Admiralty’s summaries of naval law. “But in any case, the final decision will have to be made by the Admiralty.”

  He met Harper’s eyes, daring the man to object. “Or do you want to push the matter now, when the fleet is still in danger?”

  Harper scowled, but said nothing. Henry allowed himself a moment of relief. Harper could have caused a command dispute, even though Henry had a quiet suspicion that the remainder of the American commanding officers wouldn't have sided with him. They knew, even if he didn't, that the fleet had survived through sheer luck. And Susan, regardless of how she’d assumed command, had played a large role in saving their asses.

  “I believe you are the senior surviving officer,” Henry said, after a moment. “As such, command rests in your hands.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Harper said. He didn't sound pleased. “Right now, our main task is doing as many repairs as we can before we encounter the aliens for a second time. But we also need to decide what to do next.”

  A holographic image of UXS-470 sprang into existence, showing two tramlines. One led back to UXS-469, where the unknowns were presumably lying in wait; the other led onwards in a dogleg back towards Tadpole space. Henry rather doubted the unknowns would have any problems deducing where the fleet had gone, even if they couldn't follow without heavily modifying their drives. Humanity hadn't had any trouble deducing what the Tadpoles had done, after all. It was merely duplicating the process that had caused so many headaches.

  “As you can see, Tramline Two is a standard tramline,” Harper said. “The unknowns may well be able to probe back through UXS-467 and UXS-466 to relocate us, if they haven’t already surveyed those systems. It would be reasonable for them to attempt to probe for our homeworlds ...”

  Henry nodded inwardly as Harper rattled on. There were seven transits between UXS-469 and the outer edge of Tadpole space, but it wouldn't take the unknowns long to locate the first settled worlds. Who knew what would happen then? Firing on a fleet of unknown origin suggested a degree of paranoia that worried him. Surely, any sane foe would wait until they knew more about their target before launching an attack.

  Unless they’re so alien that communication is impossible, he thought. It was hard enough to talk to the Tadpoles, despite both sides doing their utmost to make it work. We might have no choice, but to smash them back to their homeworld and trap them there.

  “And so we’ll depart in two days, once the basic repairs are completed,” Harper finished. “I believe that gives us the best chance of survival.”

  He smiled, rather coldly. “I trust that meets with your approval, Your Highness?”

  “It does,” Henry said, hastily replaying Harper’s words in his mind. There was nothing wrong with the American’s plan, although he would have preferred to start sooner. But recovering and r
earming the starfighters was a nightmare in and of itself. “And I believe the Tadpoles will agree.”

  Harper’s eyes narrowed. “Can you explain the plan to them?”

  “Yes, Captain,” Henry said. “I would suggest, however, that you detach one ship to proceed immediately. The Tadpoles - and Earth - have to be warned that the first contact mission ended in disaster.”

  “Understood,” Harper said. “I’ll see to it personally.”

  He cleared his throat, loudly. “I’m not going to pretend that we didn’t just get our asses kicked,” he added. “And I’m not going to claim that we didn’t just lose tens of thousands of good people when the bastards opened fire. But we survived, and we escaped, and we have the knowledge we need to give those bastards hell, the next time we meet. We’ll teach those goddamned fuckers that humans don’t come cheap!”

  And Tadpoles, Henry thought. In a movie, everyone would have roared their approval, but the assembled commanding officers were too tired to do more than nod. Besides, Harper needed a better scriptwriter. Right now, we’ll be lucky if we manage to get back to Tadpole space before they get a blocking force in place.

  He closed his eyes as, one by one, the images popped out of existence. He’d have to get his staff working on talking to the Tadpoles, explaining what Harper had in mind. And then ...”

  “Your Highness,” Susan said. She sounded annoyed, despite her tiredness. “You didn't have to meddle.”

  “Yes, I did,” Henry said. “The last thing we need is someone insisting that you put Captain Blake back in command.”

  “I could have talked them out of it,” Susan insisted. “I ...”

  “Maybe,” Henry said. “But why take the chance?”

  He understood precisely how she felt, but there was no time. The fleet couldn't afford any number of the problems facing its command staff, so the least he could do was get rid of one of them. And besides, there was case law to suggest he could give generalised orders ... although if the fleet ran into worse trouble, it was unlikely the Admiralty would agree with him. But then, if they ran into another enemy fleet before they’d had a chance to reorganise they probably wouldn't make it home anyway.

  “You have command of the ship,” he said, gently. “I don’t know if you’ll keep it, but for the moment you’re her commanding officer. Now, go get a few hours of sleep and then do your job.”

  “I can't sleep,” Susan insisted. “There’s too much to do.”

  “You need to rest,” Henry told her. Admiral Theodore Smith had been the same, according to Janelle. “Or you’ll fall asleep on the bridge.”

  Susan snorted. “Get some rest yourself, sir,” she said. “And then go make yourself useful.”

  Henry saluted. “Yes, Captain.”

  ***

  Susan was too tired to feel much of anything as she made her way back towards her cabin, stepping aside to allow repair crews to pass as they hurried through the ship. Her head ached and her body felt utterly drained, as if she was on the verge of collapse. She hadn't felt so rotten since survival training on the lunar surface, training that had almost killed her and the rest of her class. But there was work to do before she slept, tasks she couldn't put off until the next morning.

  Mason met her at the hatch, looking as exhausted as she felt. “Commander.”

  “It’s Captain now, apparently,” Susan said. He relaxed in apparent relief. Both of them had known that the other commanding officers might insist on overruling her and reinstating Captain Blake. “Come on inside.”

  She opened the hatch and stumbled into her cabin, looking longingly at the bed. It would be so easy just to throw herself on the mattress and close her eyes, but she couldn't allow herself to sleep, not yet. There was too much to do.

  “Hit me,” she ordered. “How bad is it?”

  “Turret Six is gone,” Mason said, flatly. “Turret Five took a glancing blow, which jammed the rotator system in place, but the Chief is convinced it can be repaired. We vented the plasma from the tanks as a precautionary measure and we’ll refill the tanks after the system has been repaired and double-checked. Drive Two is completely screwed; we’ll need a shipyard to get the power core out and replaced. And we have three gashes in our armour that we can patch over, at least for the moment. The inner layers held ...”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Susan said. “How many people did we lose?”

  Mason looked pale. “Thirty-seven,” he said. “Five gunners were lost in Turret Six, Commander ... Captain. It would have been worse if some of them hadn't managed to get out of the section before the tanks blew. Seven others died in Drive Two. The remainder were killed when the ship was hit.”

  He took a breath. “We also have seventeen injured, ranging from a broken leg to possible brain damage,” he added. “The doctor has the wounded in sickbay.”

  Susan shuddered. It could have been worse; hell, it had been worse for the carriers. If there were any survivors, the unknowns would have picked them up. And then ...? She had no idea how the unknowns treated prisoners, but judging by their unprovoked attack they weren't worried about upsetting the human race. Or the Tadpoles, for that matter. Did they even realise they’d attacked two races, not one?

  Tadpole ships look different from ours, even when they fill the same function, she thought, wryly. Unless our new enemies have no sense of aesthetics.

  “I’ll visit the wounded later,” she promised. It was her duty, now she was the battleship’s commanding officer. “And ... and Captain Blake?”

  “He’s currently in his cabin, under guard,” Mason said. “I had a long chat with Major Andres and he agreed that, for the moment, it would be better to keep Captain Blake as isolated as possible. On the record, he doesn't want to rock the boat; off the record, I think he recognises that Captain Blake is no longer the man he once was.”

  Susan nodded, relieved. The marines weren't just assigned to starships to provide boarding parties; they doubled as internal security. If Major Andres had decided to cause trouble, he could have reinstated Captain Blake and thrown Susan in the brig ... which would have been disastrous, the next time Vanguard went into combat. No doubt Prince Henry’s claim to authority would satisfy his superiors, at least, that he'd thought he was following legitimate orders. Untangling the whole affair would take the Admiralty years.

  “I’ve got half the tactical staff assigned to other duties, but the remainder are already assessing the combat records,” Mason concluded. “We should be able to learn more about the enemy soon, I hope.”

  “Have the records forwarded to Captain Harper,” Susan ordered. Mason had to know that she was no longer in command of the fleet. “He’s assumed overall command.”

  She wished that she knew Harper better, but she’d only met him once, back during one of the dinners Admiral Pournelle had hosted. It was hard to blame him for being annoyed at her actions ... she shook her head, tiredly. She knew it would be a long time before she trusted the competence of her superiors again. She’d just have to hope that Harper had earned his command, rather than taking advantage of connections. At least his early planning seemed reasonable.

  He must have assumed he’d take command, she thought. Hadn't Harper served longer than Captain Blake? He did some planning before we had the meeting.

  “And ask Prince Henry to join the tactical staff,” she added. “He’s got more familiarity with aliens than anyone else, even Parkinson.”

  “The Tadpoles might be nothing like the newcomers,” Mason pointed out.

  “He still knows not to assume that aliens think like humans,” Susan countered. Most of the books she’d read had aliens that were really funny-looking humans. But one of the stories with convincing aliens had been scary as hell. “He’ll be good at it.”

  She yawned, helplessly. Humanity wouldn't have attacked a powerful fleet without considerable provocation, particularly one in an unsettled system that was trying to communicate. Or had the aliens thought they were under attack? She vagu
ely recalled a book - or a movie - about aliens that regarded radio waves as an elaborate form of torture and started a war where both sides had good reason to think the other had shot first.

  Mason looked doubtful, but nodded. “I’ll see to it,” he said. “And, with the greatest of respect, I would honestly suggest you went to bed. You look as if you’re about to collapse on the deck.”

  Susan yawned, again. If she’d been younger, she would have thought about dragging him into bed ... she cut off that train of thought before it went anywhere. She was the battleship’s commanding officer now, even though there was a very good chance that her court martial would be the shortest formality on record. There was no way she could sleep with anyone, even if it would make her feel alive. It would have to wait until she had a chance to go home and visit Sin City ...