A Savage War Of Peace (Ark Royal Book 5)

by Christopher Nuttall

  He shrugged. “Does it really make any difference who supplies the weapons?”

  “It might to the Prime Minister,” Joelle said. “What happens when the media picks up on a massacre and blames it on British weapons? The Opposition will make hay out of it in the Houses of Parliament.”

  “Politicians,” John said. It wouldn't be the first time that idealism - and an understandable urge to avoid controversy - had led to a diplomatic disaster. “If you don’t give the aliens weapons, you lose them to other powers; if you do give them weapons, you can be charged with aiding and abetting a war between alien factions. It doesn't seem like a situation wherein you can actually win.”

  “We could offer a security blanket ourselves,” Joelle said. “We did it a couple of times on Earth.”

  “And both times eventually ended with the blanket being withdrawn,” John pointed out. It had been much worse in the Age of Unrest, when old certainties had been falling everywhere and once-trusted alliances became nothing more than ink on paper. “The Vesy would be fools to trust us to look after their interests.”

  “We mean them well,” Joelle said, stung.

  “They would be fools to take that on trust,” John said. “What happens if there is a General Election and the next Prime Minister decides to cancel our commitment to Vesy? Their only viable course of action is to get their hands on human weapons, either from us or some other nation.”

  “You sound as if you approve,” Joelle said, darkly.

  “I understand Ivan’s position,” John said. “He really doesn’t have a choice.”

  “Because of the Indians,” Joelle muttered. She cleared her throat. “Are they really giving weapons to their allies?”

  “We have orbital recordings of aliens training with human weapons,” John said. He swung his terminal around and tapped a switch, reviewing the images. “The Indians had to have supplied them, Ambassador. There’s nothing too heavy, no long-range artillery or anti-aircraft weapons, but enough to give their allies a decisive advantage, assuming we don’t supply weapons ourselves. They might expand more rapidly than the God-King and overwhelm Ivan and his people before they can learn to defend themselves.”

  “And if that happens,” Joelle said, “who do we talk to?”

  John nodded in understanding. It had been an old problem on Earth, during the Age of Unrest; the people the Western Governments preferred to talk to were rarely the people in power. If Ivan was killed and his city-state crushed, should the British recognise the facts on the ground ... or what? Intervene in a war between two different alien factions, a war that might drag in human powers? It seemed absurd to think that a war on an alien world could lead to a general human war, but if the assassination of a single man could lead to the First World War ...

  But the world was ripe for a major war, he thought. There might well have been a war anyway, even if the spark happened to be something different. The alliances would still have come into play and all hell would have broken loose.

  He shook his head. It wasn't likely to happen. The Great Powers knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they weren't alone in the universe. A major war between human powers might end with the Tadpoles taking advantage of humanity’s sudden weakness to invade human space and put an end to the potential threat, once and for all. John wasn't sure he’d blame them; if the situation was reversed, he would have seriously considered doing the same.

  “We have no choice, but to start supplying weapons,” John said, flatly. He glanced down at his terminal, then frowned. “I believe the first crates will be shipped down to the planet tomorrow.”

  “That’s fast,” Joelle said.

  “All part of the service,” John said. He grinned. “3 Para is down and deployed, so we can assure ourselves that the weapons will remain safe, for the moment.”

  He paused. “I’d like you to refrain from mentioning weapons that can be used against shuttles,” he said. “And if they ask for MANPADs, tell them we don’t have any.”

  Joelle gave him a puzzled look. “Don’t you think they’d have the intelligence to work out that they exist?”

  “I’d prefer not to give them ideas,” John said. He rather suspected the Vesy would be able to deduce their existence, but he had no intention of supplying any such weapons to any alien faction. And the Indians, if they had any common sense, would do the same. “I understand that you are to meet with the other ambassadors and representatives in a couple of days?”

  “I am,” Joelle confirmed.

  “I would ask you to suggest - strongly - that we place a blanket ban on supplying heavy weapons,” John said. “Not small arms, not rifles; weapons that can be used against us. It could lead to real problems.”

  “I’ll bring it up,” Joelle said. She winced. “It isn't going to be an easy meeting, Captain.”

  “I know,” John said. “I’ve spoken to my American and French counterparts, but they’ve both been somewhat non-committal. It may require a more formal agreement before they cooperate ...”

  He paused as his terminal started to bleep. When he looked at it, he saw a new wave of starships had entered the system, led by a Turkish destroyer and a pair of pre-war Brazilian frigates. The frigates were tougher than they looked, he knew all too well; several of them had served with honour in the war, despite being slower and far less manoeuvrable than the more modern ships. Behind them, there were nine freighters and a passenger liner, one of the few in commission. Only the very rich could afford to sail between the stars in comfort.

  “We have newcomers,” he said, dryly. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get to the bridge.”

  “Understood, Captain,” Joelle said. “Good luck.”

  Her image vanished from the display. John took a moment to gather himself - life had been so much simpler when he’d been plotting how best to dislodge the Russians from Vesy - and then rose, walking through the hatch to the bridge. There was work to be done.

  ***

  “I must say I’ve been in nicer prisons,” Penny said, as she peered around the tiny room. “It has a definite lack of charm.”

  “And when,” Percy asked as he closed the door behind them, “were you in prison?”

  “I was ordered to do a feature on the renovation of Dartmoor Prison,” she said, as she turned to face her brother. “It was definitely not the nicest place in the world, but it was nicer than this.”

  She waved a hand at the wooden walls. The tiny room wasn't large enough to swing a cat, there was a faint smell of something unpleasant drifting through the air and the washroom facilities reminded her of the refugee camp she’d endured in the days following the bombardment. And the only source of illumination was a lantern someone had hung from the rooftop, which cast an eerie light over the entire scene.

  “But it’s on an alien world,” Percy said, as he sat down on the bunk. “That must count for something, mustn’t it?”

  Penny nodded, ruefully, and leaned against the wall. It was an alien world ... and she had to admit she’d already recorded enough footage to please her bosses, back home on Earth. She sighed, then studied her brother thoughtfully. Percy had always been muscular, even before he’d started training in earnest, but now he looked older, more mature. It was hard, sometimes, to reconcile the older brother who’d put worms in her hair as a child with the grown man sitting in front of her. And yet, after the bombardment, they’d both had to grow up in a tearing hurry. They couldn't be children any longer.

  “I see you got promoted,” she said. She smiled, teasing him lightly. “You’re actually quite famous on Earth, you know. They’re already planning to do a movie about your life, with Thomas Morse in the lead role ...”

  “Shut up,” Percy said, crossly. “I really hope that’s a joke.”

  “Well, it’s Lawrence Newman instead of Thomas Morse,” Penny said. She broke off at his glare and changed the subject. “You’re right, Percy. This is an alien world.”

  Percy sighed. “Why did you come here?”
<
br />   “My bosses thought I’d be good at it,” Penny said. She wasn't surprised that Percy objected, not really. He’d been terrifyingly over-protective since the bombardment, even though she was only two years younger than him. “And it was definitely a chance to make my name.”

  “Perhaps as someone who died on Vesy,” Percy said. “This isn't a safe place, Pen-Pen.”

  Penny felt her cheeks flush at the childish nickname. “Call me that in public and I’ll tell your manly friends about the time you got stuck in the mud, when we were in Skye.”

  “Point taken,” Percy said. The old Percy would probably have shouted an insult ... but that Percy had died with their parents. “But Penny, it really isn't safe here.”

  “You don't make a reputation for covering safe places,” Penny pointed out, crossly. “Or did you earn your medals for standing on guard outside Buckingham Palace?”

  “That’s a different regiment,” Percy said, automatically. “And they earned their medals when terrorists tried to storm Buckingham Palace.”

  “You know what I mean,” Penny said, resisting a childish urge to stamp her foot. What was it about being with her brother that brought out the worst in her? She was a mature adult with a career of her own, not the fourteen-year-old brat who’d amused herself by scaring away Percy’s girlfriends. “I need to do something spectacular to earn a reputation.”

  Percy laughed. “Well, you do realise that there are quite a few other reporters on the planet?”

  “I have embedded myself with the ambassador’s party,” Penny countered. She knew there would be meetings that excluded the press, but she’d have near-complete access otherwise. “I should at least get a clean shot at a scoop or two.”

  “Embed yourself with the planned visits to alien cities,” Percy suggested, sarcastically. “You might learn things you didn't want to learn.”

  He took a breath. “How is your career?”

  Penny winced. She was a very junior reporter and, despite the protection of her name, she wasn't entirely immune to pressure from senior reporters and editors. There were so few jobs available at any one time these days, after the bombardment, that few people were prepared to say no if their boss started putting unreasonable demands on them. She had had a sneaking suspicion that she hadn't been promoted earlier because of her name, although she had received the coveted posting to Vesy. But then, she had both aristocratic connections and a brother already stationed on the planet.

  Percy reached out and took her hand. “Who do I have to kill?”

  “It isn't that bad,” Penny assured him, hastily. “It’s just hard to make any headway when the older reporters guard their posts like ...”

  “Dogs in the manger?” Percy guessed.

  “More like hyenas gnawing at carrion,” Penny muttered. She glowered down at the wooden floor. “If an assignment is offered that promises fame, expect all of the older reporters to pull strings to get it for themselves. There’s no real sense of comradeship among the bastards when they are really chasing name recognition, not a tradition of long service. The ones that reach the very highest levels are practically regarded as little tin gods. They can get away with practically anything as long as they keep delivering the goods.”

  She sighed. “There’s this bitch who looks like a doll,” she added. “She keeps saying she was actually assigned to Ark Royal, but I don’t believe her. And yet she keeps getting all the good assignments because she’s got real name recognition. I don’t have that yet ...”

  “Our name is known across the country, if not the world,” Percy pointed out.

  “Just for who our father was,” Penny snapped back. “I’m not known for myself.”

  She pulled her hand free, then glowered at her brother. “I’m going to use this assignment to make my name,” she said, firmly. “And you are not going to get in my way.”

  “Just don’t ask me to be interviewed,” Percy said, tiredly. “And please, watch your back.”

  “I always do,” Penny said. She had picked up the habit at the refugee camp and never really lost it. “I still shoot every weekend for practice.”

  “Make sure you spend some time at the shooting range here,” Percy said. He sighed. “Do you have a registered firearm?”

  “Not from here,” Penny said. It hadn't been easy to get the gun permit, even though the government had been practically handing them out like candy after the bombardment. There just hadn't been enough policemen or soldiers to maintain order over large parts of the country. “I brought the pistol I got in Newcastle.”

  “Get the weapon registered at the shooting range or draw yourself a new one from the armoury,” Percy said. “No one wants to lose a weapon to the locals - but if we do, we want to know what we lost. There’s a colossal fine if you lose one and don’t actually report it.”

  “I thought there was a colossal fine if you lost the weapon anyway,” Penny said. She’d been required to place a bond for the pistol before she’d been allowed to buy it. “Or is it different here.”

  Percy smirked. “You would be astonished just how much equipment is marked down as having being lost during a war,” he said. “It provides a convenient excuse for ... losing something that actually got lost on exercise, or was shipped elsewhere owing to bureaucratic stupidity.”

  “Oh,” Penny said. She looked her brother in the eye. “Is it really a problem?”

  “We’ve lost quite a few small trinkets,” Percy said. “I believe they were stolen by some of the local workers while they were building the fort. Even something minor to us” - he looked around, then nodded at the lantern - “is worth its weight in gold to them. I think that several datapads crammed with books and movies have gone missing over the last six months.”

  Penny blinked. “You think?”

  “I know they went missing,” Percy said. “But I don’t know where they went.”

  “Well,” Penny said, after a moment. “I’m sure the Vesy will be very interested to see the sort of movies you used to hide on your datapad.”

  “You might have a point,” Percy said. He didn't look as embarrassed as he’d done when their mother had caught him watching porn, Penny noted. “It would teach them a great deal about human biology. And some of the books might teach them something about how the human race is governed.”

  Penny shook her head. “The fantasy shit you used to read won’t teach them anything,” she disagreed. “All those wizards and goblins and things that go bump in the night ...”

  “Thrillers will,” Percy said. “One of the missing datapads had a complete set of books by Brett Mole, the former naval officer who used to write military thrillers about a general war between America and China. Someone could put together a great deal about the two different systems of government, merely by reading the books.”

  “And a great deal about pre-war weapons and tactics,” Penny said. Brett Mole had retired from the navy and gone into writing well before First Contact. “But it will be all magic to them, won’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” Percy said. “No amount of reading Wizards of Wisdom will teach someone how to use magic, not when the rituals are all nonsensical and there’s no such thing as magic. But they know our technology works ... and they may make reasoned deductions from what they read. It could turn into a major problem.”

  His eyes narrowed suddenly. “And they have been fighting each other regularly,” he added, sharply. “So, again, watch your back. And keep an eye on your possessions.”

  “I will,” Penny promised. She’d make sure she kept her recorder and communicator with her at all times. “Now, why don’t you tell me more about the planet and its population?”

  “Because there are some things you really have to experience for yourself,” Percy said. “And I would hate to spoil the surprise.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The conference room was as good as Grace and a handful of aides from other human powers could make it, Joelle knew, as she stepped into the room. But she kn
ew it didn't remotely live up to the standards of conference rooms on Earth. A large pair of fans blew cold air over the table, which was made from wood and polished until she could practically see her own face reflected in it, while a single smaller table was covered with glasses and large jugs of boiled water. They’d been warned, more than once, to keep all liquids covered, at least outside of the air-conditioned buildings. It didn't normally take more than a few minutes for insects to descend on anything uncovered and start devouring it for themselves.

  But that isn't a bad thing, she told herself, as the other diplomats started to file into the room, a handful carrying bug detectors so they could do their own private sweeps. It should focus a few minds on where we are, rather than the comforts of Geneva.

  She concealed her amusement with an effort at their appearance. The black suits and ties were gone, replaced by shorts, slacks and shirts. None of them looked particularly diplomatic; they looked more like middle-aged men and women going to a holiday resort for the first time in their lives, trying to be hip and yet not having the slightest idea how to pull it off. Joelle couldn't help thinking, as she took her seat around the round table - carefully designed so that no one appeared to be in charge, or more important than anyone else - that maybe they would actually get something done. Time was not exactly on their side.