Ark Royal 2: The Nelson Touch

by Christopher Nuttal

  “I know,” the First Space Lord confessed. “But we are in a very poor position.”

  “No, we’re not,” Ted said, firmly. “He’s an officer in the Royal Navy. His job is to follow orders. Assign him to a home defence squadron, if he must fly starfighters, either here or on Britannia. And, if he makes a fuss about it, tell him we can send him to an isolated mining camp instead.”

  “It isn't that simple,” Fitzwilliam said. He looked up at the First Space Lord. “Is it?”

  “No,” the First Space Lord said. He produced a sheet of papers and passed them over to Ted, who flicked through them carefully. “His scores at the Academy were very good – and, as he was under a false name, there was no risk of favouritism. I believe his training instructors included a few of your former crewmen. There are no grounds for denying him an assignment to a carrier that won’t stink when they are dragged out into the public eye. And I am damn sure, Admiral, that they will be dragged out. The media will make sure of it.”

  “Operational security,” Ted muttered. The scores were very good. Poor marks for discipline, he noted, but nothing bad enough to merit being booted out of the training program. “Tell them we don’t give out personnel details and leave it at that, sir.”

  “It won’t work, not for the Prince,” the First Space Lord said. He sighed. “You know, I believe, just how close the monarchy and the aristocracy came to being legislated out of existence. Right now, the Royal Family cannot afford to look like they’re shirking their share of the military burden. Perhaps, if he'd started when he’d intended to start, it wouldn't be such a problem. Now, even if we rated him as such a high performer we could justify assigning him to a training slot, Ted, it would look very bad. There would be questions asked in the Houses of Parliament – both Houses of Parliament.”

  He shrugged. “I can't see the remainder of the aristocracy taking it lightly either,” he added. “People like Captain Fitzwilliam” – he indicated the Captain with one hand – “take the same risks as everyone else in the Royal Navy. Aristocratic rank sometimes serves as an entree, but it isn't allowed to take someone further than they deserve. But this ... it could undermine the monarchy itself.”

  “But if we put him on Ark Royal,” Ted noted, “we run the risk of losing the heir to the throne. There is no way we could protect him if the aliens came swarming, sir.”

  The First Space Lord sighed, again. “Then we have a solution to the problem of just which of the King’s children will inherit the throne,” he said, coldly. “Between the Prince’s determination to do something useful with his life, something he earned on his own merits, and the political problems involved in preventing him from serving on the front lines, we have been backed into a corner. The Prince must serve on Ark Royal.”

  Ted managed – somehow – to keep from muttering something uncomplimentary under his breath. The tradition of aristocrats changing their features and assuming false names to serve in the military was relatively new, but it made sure that the training officers and drill instructors didn't know their charges were anything other than common recruits. Anything they earned, they earned on their own merits. And if they got booted out, no one raised a fuss. There were plenty of places to exile unworthy aristocrats too.

  But losing the Prince, even if he wasn't supposed to know the Prince was serving under his command, would be more than a little embarrassing. No doubt the politicians, having created the problem in the first place, would swoop down like vultures, trying hard to place the blame on the sitting government. In turn, the government would blame the Royal Navy – and Ted, the officer who had been in command at the time. There was no way he could see it working out well, yet he knew there was no way out, short of resigning his commission. And he couldn't bring himself to do that, not when the Navy was his life.

  “Fine,” he said. He knew his tone was disrespectful and didn't really care. “But he won’t get any special treatment.”

  “I believe that is what he wants,” the First Space Lord said, mildly. “No special treatment at all.”

  He paused for a long moment. “I understand how you feel about this,” he added. “And I will try to minimise any ... interference from other parties.”

  Ted nodded, sourly.

  “One good thing from all of this,” the First Space Lord added. “You can bar reporters from Ark Royal.”

  “Good,” Ted said, remembering the reporters he’d been saddled with during the first advance into alien-held space. The best of them had had some experience as an embed, fortunately, but the others had been idiots. He was still mildly surprised none of them had actually managed to kill themselves during the voyage. “Can I bar them from the entire operation?”

  “I believe there may be some American embeds on the American carriers,” the First Space Lord said. “But you don’t have to say anything to them if you don’t want to.”

  “An excellent bribe,” Ted said, lightly.

  “I know exactly how you feel,” the First Space Lord said. “I’ve tried to find the Prince an assignment that looks dangerous, but with very little real danger. I found nothing that would pass muster with the media, let alone their tame military experts. There’s no politically acceptable alternative.”

  “I understand,” Ted said. He looked at Fitzwilliam, then back at the First Space Lord. “If he wants to be anonymous, that’s precisely what he will get. His identity will not be disclosed any further.”

  “Good,” the First Space Lord said.

  He smiled, changing the subject. “I believe the remainder of your fleet will assemble by the end of the week,” he said. “I will expect a full report after you meet with your new subordinates.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ted said. At least his new subordinates wouldn't be princes in disguise. “I’ll keep you informed.”

  He paused. “Are there any other surprises for me?”

  “None,” the First Space Lord said. “You can go see your family, if you wish, or enjoy a brief walk around London before you return to your ship. I believe there are some people waiting to see you, Captain Fitzwilliam. You should talk to them before you go for a wander yourself.”

  Ted scowled, catching the underlying subtext. The First Space Lord hadn't said it out loud, but the conclusion was very clear. It might be his last chance to see London before he died.

  Maybe I’ll go take a look at Buckingham Palace, he thought. He’d been there twice since his return to Earth, both times for award ceremonies he would have preferred to avoid. See what the Prince is trying to escape.

  Chapter Five

  It was a curious aspect of British Governance, James reflected, that backroom deals often took place before either the media or the public caught wind of them. Given the complicated balance of power between the monarchy, the aristocracy and the democratically-elected government, all parties tried hard to avoid putting any public strain on the system and tended to come to compromise agreements before making the debate public. The system had come close to collapse more than once, but since the troubles it had steered Britain through some very rough waters indeed.

  He smiled as he stepped into the private room and caught sight of his Uncle Winchester, seated in a chair and studying the menu. The older man had been a great inspiration to him in his youth; he’d served in the Royal Navy, then gone onwards into the government. Even now, his mind was as sharp as ever. Perhaps, James considered, too sharp. His uncle had put him in a very awkward spot when James had been assigned to Ark Royal.

  “Ah, James,” Winchester said. “Take a seat, please, and order something for yourself. My treat.”

  James obeyed, picking up the menu and running his eye down the list of meals. None of them, he noted, had a price tag attached, a sure sign that they were staggeringly expensive. But then, the club principally catered to aristocrats, wealthy businessmen who would be invited into the aristocracy sooner or later and government ministers. It was unlikely in the extreme that someone would enter its hallowed halls without the a
bility to barely notice the price.

  “Steak and chips would be fine,” he said, making his selection. A waitress appeared out of a side door, took their orders and faded away again. James watched her go – the short skirt she wore showed off her legs to best advantage – then turned to look at his uncle. “What?”

  “You really should think about getting married,” Winchester said. “Those genes you have need to be passed on to the next generation.”

  James flushed, helplessly. Once, the aristocracy had tried to marry other aristocrats and ended up with countless problems caused by inbreeding. Now, there was a definite push for aristocrats to marry commoners – successful commoners – and bring new blood into the ruling class. It had worked, James had to admit, although it sometimes caused problems for the commoners. Few of them were used to living within the goldfish bowl of the aristocracy.

  “I have no one in mind,” he said, tightly. “And my duties do not give me time to meet women.”

  “Take a day off and go to the next Palace reception,” Winchester suggested. “There’s always a few girls there making their entry into society.”

  “I don't have time,” James said. “There’s more work in managing a carrier than civilians seem to understand.”

  Winchester snorted “Aren’t you glad you didn't manage to take Ark Royal from Captain Smith?”

  James flushed, again. His uncle was fond of allowing him to make mistakes – and then pointing them out, afterwards. Trying to unseat Captain Smith had been a mistake, one mitigated only by the fact he’d failed. If he had commanded the carrier during the first battles, James suspected, the results would have been far less favourable to the human race. They might have come alarmingly close to losing the war.

  “Yes,” he said, tightly.

  “Good,” Winchester said. “You really need to learn from your mistakes, Captain.”

  “Yes, sir,” James said.

  The waitress returned, carrying two plates of food. James averted his eyes as she bent over to place them on the table, then curtseyed and retreated back through the side door. Uncle Winchester chuckled, then motioned for James to start eating. His own dinner, a Lancashire Hot Pot, steamed as he cut his way inside and started to pull out the meat. James smiled, remembering formal dinners at the manor house. Uncle Winchester was rarely welcome because he was an eccentric eater, yet too aristocratic to be told off by James’s mother.

  “Which leads to another point,” Uncle Winchester said, between bites. “I want you to continue your observation of Admiral Smith.”

  James felt cold ice congeal around his heart. The Admiralty had worried about leaving Ark Royal in Captain Smith’s hands, knowing him to be a drunkard. James had been given orders to relieve the Captain of command if he believed it to be necessary, something that could easily have killed his career as well as the career of the commanding officer he’d betrayed. Even if his career survived – and he knew that his actions might have been judged to be mutiny by a court martial – he would never have been trusted again by his fellow officers. And, in truth, he might have ignored his orders.

  But if I’d relieved the Captain of command, he thought, we would never have escaped the trap.

  James knew, without false modesty, that he'd done very well at the Academy. And yet he would never have thought of trying to board and storm an alien starship. Instead, he would probably have fought to the bitter end, knowing that it would be futile. Captain Smith had thought of a way out, then implemented it and carried the plan through to the end. He thoroughly deserved his promotion.

  “No,” he said, flatly.

  Winchester looked up at him, surprised. “No?”

  “No, sir,” James said. He braced himself, then carried on. “There is no evidence that the Captain – the Admiral – has returned to drink. He has more than proved himself a good commanding officer, as I believe the Old Lady’s war record indicates. I don’t think he deserves to have his Flag Captain spying on him.”

  He paused, remembering Commander Williams. Had she been sent to spy on James? A year ago, he would have sneered at the thought. The Royal Navy didn't betray its own. And yet, now, he knew it was a possibility. Commander Williams had practically been forced on him by the Admiralty.

  “I do not think that you’re the one who should be making those judgements,” Uncle Winchester said. James blinked, then remembered that his Uncle was still talking about him spying on Admiral Smith. “The Admiralty is still very concerned.”

  James glowered down at his steak, stabbing it as if the piece of meat had done him a personal injury. “The Admiralty saw fit to give him command of a multinational task force composed of six full-sized carriers,” he snapped. “If they had concerns, they could have promoted him up into a groundside office where he wouldn't have had to do more than make ceremonial appearances and review parades.”

  “Politics,” Winchester observed, lightly. “Admiral Smith has earned a large number of supporters who don’t, I’m afraid, seem to know anything about his drinking habits.”

  James had his doubts. The Royal Navy had worked closely with both the French and Americans in the past, sharing personnel files with both powers. Even if they hadn't, James knew for a fact that the Royal Navy kept files on foreign officers who might be of interest and he rather assumed that the other interstellar powers did the same. On the other hand, Admiral Smith hadn’t been remotely important until Ark Royal had suddenly become the last best hope of humanity. It was quite possible that foreign powers knew next to nothing about him.

  He shook his head. “I’m sure the media will fill in the gaps,” he said, although he had his doubts about that too. The media representations of the Battle of New Russia had left him wondering if he’d been there at all, even though he knew perfectly well that he'd been in the CIC during the fighting. “Or their spy services, for that matter.”

  “No doubt,” Winchester said. “But we would really prefer it if you kept an eye on the Admiral for us.”

  James met his eyes. “No,” he said, again. “I do not believe it is justified, sir.”

  His uncle gave him the long hard look that, as a child, had been a warning that there was punishment coming if he didn't straighten up and fly right. James swallowed, reminded himself that he was an adult, and refused to lower his eyes. As intimidating as his uncle could be, James was hardly a child any longer and he refused to further betray a commanding officer he had come to respect.

  “You could be wrong,” Winchester said. “Can we afford to trust your judgement?”

  “Yes,” James said.

  “You tried to take command of a starship you were unprepared to command,” his uncle reminded him. “Does that indicate your judgement is flawless?”

  James felt his temper flare. “I believe you were caught in the haystacks with a girl barely a third of your age,” he snapped. It had been quite the scandal at the time, although as Uncle Winchester had shown no hint of remorse or even concern it had faded quickly. “Does that indicate your judgement is flawless?”

  His uncle smiled. “Point taken,” he said. “I will respect your judgement.”

  He leaned forward. “But we cannot afford to lose the alliance,” he added. “Please, keep an eye on things.”

  James met his eyes. “Did you assign Commander Williams to keep an eye on me?”

  “No,” Winchester said. “I believe Thomas” – the First Space Lord – “wanted to make sure that there were other commanding officers for Ark Royal and her forthcoming sisters waiting in the wings. You’ll probably have quite a few other officers passing through your hands in the coming months, James. Try to make sure they know what they’re doing.”

  He paused. “She is pretty and smart,” he added. “You could do worse.”

  James glowered at him. “She's not a woman, damn it,” he snapped. “She’s my XO.”

  “How true,” Winchester agreed. “But I was serious about urging you to consider marriage.”

  “Oh,” Jam
es said.

  His uncle switched subjects suddenly, in the manner that had always irked James’s mother whenever he came to tea. “I believe you have been told about your ... unexpected crewmember?”

  “You mean the Prince,” James said, in no mood for games. He took a bite of his steak, then scowled at his uncle. “We were told today. I would have preferred more warning.”

  “So would we,” Winchester said. “The whole affair is quite ill-timed, particularly with the legal issues over the succession.”

  James sighed. In 2013, the succession laws had been rewritten to state that the firstborn child, male or female, would inherit the throne. But in 2030, during the troubles, the laws had been dismissed as the work of senseless liberals by the sitting Prime Minister and returned to the pre-2013 state, along with many others. James remembered history lessons where historians debated if the Prime Minister had been right or if he’d thrown out the baby along with the bathwater. It was hard to argue against the claim that England’s Queens, on the whole, had done better than England’s Kings. But reaction had been the order of the day back during the troubles. Even now, historians still had problems coming to terms with everything that had happened back then.