Ark Royal

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  The intercom buzzed. “Return to the Old Lady,” the XO ordered, flatly. “We’re going back to Earth.”

  * * *

  “I had a preliminary look at the pieces of debris,” Anderson reported, “but most of them are too badly battered to be understandable.”

  Ted nodded, sharing a long look with his XO. He hadn't really expected any ground-shaking discoveries, apart from the alien bodies, but it was still disappointing. It would have been nice to recover an alien plasma weapon intact so it could be reverse-engineered…

  He shook his head, dismissing the thought. “What can you tell us about the alien ships?”

  “Their hulls are actually stronger than one of our modern carriers, but weaker than Ark Royal’s armour,” Anderson said. “There's nothing particularly… alien about the composite they use, it’s merely something that might prove more resistant to plasma blasts. I think we can place it into production ourselves in short order, although it would still take months — more likely years — before we could sheath all of the modern carriers in alien-derived armour.”

  “They might want to start building new carriers from scratch,” Fitzwilliam observed. “And battleships too.”

  Ted nodded. Mass drivers had been the most effective weapon humanity had found, so far, and he could see the value in producing hundreds of mass driver-armed starships. If Ark Royal’s limited system had been able to wreck havoc, an entire fleet of such starships would be unstoppable. Hell, they could just start by rigging mass drivers onto the hulls of escort ships, then produce a more formal design later.

  “It takes upwards of a year to produce a modern carrier — longer, of course, to produce something like the Old Lady,” Anderson reminded him, stroking the desk absently with one hand. “New carriers will be required, eventually, but it will be quicker to modify the ones we have.”

  “The Admiralty can decide that,” Ted said. He keyed a switch, accessing a secure data store and displaying the images of the alien bodies. “The face of the enemy, gentlemen.”

  He smiled at their reactions to the alien face. In proper lighting, he couldn't help thinking of a amphibious creature. The alien might be equally at home in and out of the water, he decided; their leathery skin and the absence of any protective garment suggested that they were actually tougher than humans. It seemed odd to consider a starship crew that were completely naked — even if they had no nudity taboo, surely they would need protection against accidents — but maybe it worked for them. There was nothing that suggested the alien’s sex, at least as far as he could tell.

  “Ugly bastards,” Farley said, finally. “And tough too.”

  “Very tough,” Doctor Jeanette Hastings agreed. She leaned forward. “As per regulations, I transferred the bodies into storage tubes rather than attempting to study them myself. However, I can tell you, just from a visual inspection, that the aliens are definitely tough — and probably faster than they look. Judging from the shape of their eyes, they’re used to a darker environment than humanity; they’re probably far more capable of seeing in the dark without technological aid.”

  Fitzwilliam smiled. “What gender are they?”

  “Impossible to tell without an autopsy,” Jeanette said. “I was unable to locate anything resembling either a penis or a vagina through visual inspection. They look humanoid, but they don't have to breed like humans. They could lay eggs, for example, or they might have a biological caste system and the bodies we’ve recovered belong to a caste that doesn't breed.”

  She shrugged. “I did take a look at some of the recovered blood,” she added. “They’re biologically incompatible with us, so any dreams of cross-racial hybrids will remain just that — dreams.”

  Ted rolled his eyes. If there was one great disadvantage to the planetary datanet that linked Earth together, it was that it allowed hundreds of kooks to feel that they were not alone. One pressure group, in particular, believed that the aliens wanted to mate with human women to produce pointy-eared hybrids. The fact that this was biologically impossible — humans couldn't produce offspring with their closest relatives in the animal kingdom, let alone creatures from a completely different biological system — never seemed to have crossed their minds.

  “Glad to hear it,” he said, dryly. He looked around the table. “We will proceed back to Earth within the hour, bearing the recovered bodies with us. Should we consider leaving teams behind to continue the search?”

  “We’ve inspected most of the debris,” Anderson said. “I don’t feel that there will be any important discoveries made from the remainder, sir. Most of it is just pieces of alien hull; anything that might be useful has been firmly melted down into scrap metal. I suspect that Earth will dispatch a post-battle assessment team to check out the remainder anyway.”

  “They probably will,” Ted agreed. He suspected that the other interstellar powers would send their own teams. Britain gaining access to alien bodies — and technology — might upset the balance of power. Or it would have, if anything they found wasn't shared. With a powerful alien race breathing down their necks, it was unlikely that the Admiralty would see fit to classify the recovered bodies and data. “Overall… do we have any better idea of where to look for the alien homeworld?”

  Anderson and Jeanette exchanged glances, then Anderson shook his head. “I doubt it,” he said. “It's possible that something might turn up, once the post-battle teams arrive in the system, but it's unlikely.”

  Ted had his doubts. The security officers had gone through Ark Royal and discovered an alarming amount of data — unsecured data — that could point the aliens towards Earth. He knew the computer cores were designed to wipe themselves, then melt down into puddles of molten liquid, but books and diaries were far less secure. But how many of them would be comprehensible to the aliens?

  He stood. “Inform your departmental heads that they have all performed brilliantly,” he ordered, as they rose to their feet. “We have good reason to be proud of what we have done today. Dismissed.”

  Fitzwilliam waited for the room to clear, then walked over to stand beside his commander. “I have a report on repairs,” he said, quietly. “We can fix up the damage within a day or two, even without outside help.”

  “I know,” Ted said. Ark Royal had been designed for long-duration cruises, after all. “But we do have to return to Earth.”

  He wondered, briefly, what the Admiralty would make of the victory. On one hand, it was a stunning reversal of fortunes; on the other, it implied that there was only one starship capable of standing up to the aliens. But then… there was no reason why mass drivers and other weapons couldn’t be deployed to defend Earth very quickly. Hell, after the first reports of the battle had made it back to humanity’s homeworld, preparations had probably already started.

  “Understood, sir,” Fitzwilliam said.

  “Go to the bridge, then lay in a course,” Ted ordered. “I’ll join you before we leave the system.”

  He closed his eyes as soon as the XO left, leaving him alone. The victory hadn't come cheaply, he knew, even though the aliens had suffered worse by an order of magnitude. Thirty-two starfighter pilots dead, ninety-two officers and men on the destroyed frigate… that weapon was going to be a major problem. It was quite possible that a close-range duel with one of the alien craft would be impossible.

  And they'd all died under his command.

  Angrily, he pushed the guilt aside and opened his eyes. A naval career, even one spent on an isolated asteroid mining station, always carried the risk of a violent death. No one joined the navy believing it to be safe. Hell, space was never safe. The civilian death rate was actually higher than the navy’s, although civilian starships tended to operate far closer to the margins than naval starships. He knew that to be true. But somehow it didn't make his task any easier.

  Gritting his teeth, he strode out of the Briefing Room and marched towards the bridge, almost tripping over several boxes of spare parts someone had stowed in the passag
eway. He made a mental note to discuss it with his XO. As important as it was to cram the ship to the gunwales with spare parts, it was equally important not to impede the crew from rushing to battle stations when the alarm sounded.

  “Captain,” Fitzwilliam said, when he stepped through the airlock. “Our course is laid in, ready to go.”

  Ted took his command chair and nodded. “Take us home,” he ordered. It felt good to say it, even though part of him worried over the reaction from the Admiralty. Would they have expected him to destroy the entire alien force? “Best possible speed.”

  He smiled to himself, wanly. A week ago, crewmen assigned to Ark Royal had been mocked by their fellows. The Old Lady was ancient, a relic of a bygone era… there had been several fights, which had been broken up by the local police. But who, he asked himself, would be laughing now? The Old Lady had more than proved herself in combat.

  Good, he thought, patting his command chair. Now we just have to win the war.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ted had never set foot in Westminster Abbey. Not as a schoolchild, not as a tourist and not as a naval officer. But now… he settled uncomfortably on his seat, wishing desperately for drink, as the service for the dead droned on. The Admiralty had surrendered to the political desire to honour the dead in Westminster Abbey… he shook his head, cursing the politicians under his breath. Surely, the dead deserved better than this farce of a ceremony.

  He looked around, feeling oddly out of place among the brass. It seemed that every officer above the rank of Commodore had been summoned to the Abbey, along with thousands of politicians, celebrities and reporters. The latter were baying for blood — or newsworthy quotes — outside the Abbey, calling out to everyone they saw for something they could record and put on the datanet. Ted would have preferred to face the aliens again, rather than the reporters. At least the aliens would only have killed him, rather than dissecting his career, reputation and appearance.

  It took nearly an hour before the service finally came to an end. By that time, Ted was praying desperately for something — anything — to break the monotony. Everyone from the Prime Minister to the First Space Lord seemed to have something to say, even though most of it consisted of useless platitudes. Ted wished he could make his escape as soon as the end came, but he knew better. There was a reception being held immediately after for Ark Royal’s senior officers. It would be hellish.

  He glanced down at his terminal as the PM left the Abbey, followed by a stream of senior officers. There was a security alert at the top; apparently, thousands of additional reporters were pressing against the police barricades, even though they all had access to the live feed from within the Abbey. But that wouldn’t be the same, Ted knew, as catching someone in the act of doing something embarrassing. Or recording something that could be taken out of context and then turned into a weapon. It struck him, not for the first time, that it had probably been reporters who had arranged for a ban on duelling. They would have found themselves challenged repeatedly, otherwise.

  Outside, the baying of the reporters grew louder as he followed the First Space Lord out of the Abbey and down towards a set of white cars. They shouted and screamed, begging for him to turn and look at them, or answer their questions, no matter how absurd they were. Ted kept his face as expressionless as possible, sighing in relief the moment he climbed into the car and shut the door. After having his character alternatively praised and assassinated, he would be happy if he never saw any reporter ever again.

  “The politicians needed soothing and so did the general public,” the First Space Lord said, once he’d run a bug detector over the car. Technically, bugging government or military facilities was illegal, but that didn't stop the media. “They were really quite upset.”

  Ted nodded. It had been two days since Ark Royal had returned to Earth and the public had gone wild. Everyone had known that the aliens were invincible… until Ark Royal proved otherwise. Certainly, quite a few armchair admirals had complained about the decision to abandon the backdoor system after the battle, but the Admiralty had understood. The aliens might easily come back with more firepower… or simply pick another star to use as a waypoint on the way to Earth.

  “It's a farce, sir,” he said. He cursed himself a moment later. Normally, he would never have been so expressive in front of a superior officer. “My people deserved better.”

  “They always do,” the First Space Lord said. He smiled as the car came to a halt in front of a large building, protected by a row of policemen. “Enjoy the reception, Captain. You’re the hero of the hour.”

  Ted sighed, inwardly. He was the highest-ranking officer from the carrier… but most of the guests would be higher-ranking still. Every naval officer — and probably a few army officers — had tried hard to wrangle invitations. His crewmen would be hopelessly junior to the officers they were supposed to chitchat with, promising a day of awkward chatter and embarrassing silences. But it had to be endured.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, unconvincingly.

  Inside, a band was playing, hundreds of senior officers were already milling about… and there was a large table full of expensive booze. Ted stared, wondering just how many thousands of pounds had been spent on the wine alone, then reached for a glass before stopping himself. He couldn't afford to get drunk, not now. Instead, he took a glass of orange juice and looked around for someone he could actually talk to. But there was no one, apart from the Japanese Naval Attaché. And he was known to be the most frightful bore.

  Sighing, Ted walked over to greet him anyway. It had been two years since they’d last met, when the Japanese officer had managed to convince the Royal Navy to give him a tour of Ark Royal. Ted had wondered, in all seriousness, if the Japanese Navy intended to build their own armoured carriers, but nothing had ever materialised. Under the circumstances, he decided, that seemed something of a pity.

  “Congratulations on your victory,” the Japanese officer said. “I wish to hear all about it.”

  * * *

  James had grown up in an aristocratic family, although he liked to think that he had made it into the navy on his own abilities. As boring as aristocratic parties could be — and the reception was organised on the same principles — they were also an excellent chance to network. He took a glass of water this time — getting tipsy could still be embarrassing, if not disastrous — and moved from person to person, keeping an eye on the other crewmen as he did. Not all of them had any experience in parties and the last thing he wanted was to have to get them out of trouble.

  “Ah, I hear you did well for yourself after all,” a voice said. “Good show!”

  James turned to see his Uncle Winchester, a retired naval officer of fifty years experience. The grizzled old man had been one of the prime influences on his life, James had to admit, although he hadn't listened to everything the older man had taught him. Trying to force his way into command of Ark Royal was something certain to annoy Uncle Winchester… and the fact it had blown up in James’s face certain to amuse him.

  “Yes, Uncle,” he said, remembering the models of carriers and escort vessels his uncle had given him as a child. Some of them had been remarkably impractical, others prospective designs for future naval development. Uncle Winchester, if he recalled correctly, had actually had a hand in developing the modern carriers the aliens had torn apart. “I have learnt a great deal from Captain Smith.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Uncle Winchester said. He placed a hand on James’s arm, half-pushing him towards a side room. “You have to learn to walk before you can run.”

  The sound of the band cut off the moment the door closed. James hesitated, then turned to face his uncle. The side rooms were often used for backroom dealing between people who could never be seen together in public, although there was no reason he couldn't speak to his uncle anywhere. But then another door opened and the First Space Lord entered the room.

  “Be seated,” the First Space Lord ordered, shortly. “We don’t h
ave much time.”

  James swallowed and obeyed, feeling suddenly very unsure of his own ground. He’d used the Old Boys Network to push the First Space Lord into promoting him, only to discover that his pressure only went so far. In hindsight, he knew, Captain Smith had been entirely correct to point out that James was hardly ready for command of a modern carrier, let alone an ancient ship held together by improvised fixes and scrounged spare parts. But it would be years, he suspected, before he was ever allowed to forget that he’d tried to snatch command out of the hands of his current CO.

  “I need to ask you a question,” the First Space Lord continued, once he'd taken a seat facing James. Uncle Winchester sat to the side, his eyes never leaving James’s face. “Is Captain Smith suitable for command?”

  James stared at him, unable to keep his shock off his face. Asking an XO to comment on his Captain’s fitness for command was a severe breach of naval etiquette. If the CO found out, it would shatter the trust between him and his XO, trust that had already been weakened by James’s attempt to snatch command for himself. There were situations when an XO could legally relieve the Captain of command, but they tended to result in the XO’s career coming to a screeching halt. If the Admiralty had their doubts, they should have sent in an investigative officer.

  He realised, suddenly, just how poor the Admiralty’s position actually was. They’d found it impossible to push a knighted officer into early requirement, so they’d given him Ark Royal and left him to his own devices. Instead of drinking himself to death, Smith had kept Ark Royal functional; the starship had barely needed a month of intensive work to return to full combat-worthy status. And then Smith had pulled off a victory that had made him the world’s man of the hour. The media was already comparing him to Drake, Nelson, Cunningham and Singh. If the Admiralty had wanted to relieve him of command, they would have to explain it to the media… and to politicians, eager to make political hay at the Admiralty’s expense.