“Thank you,” Bennett said, curtly. He had a London accent, one that spoke of growing up in the East End. “Campbell. Come with me.”
Alan rose and followed Bennett through the door, down a corridor and through a guarded gate into a small conference room. Bennett moved with absolute confidence, the kind of movement that suggested he knew no one would dare block his way. Alan watched his back, silently evaluating. Bennett would have grown up honing his talent for violence on the streets, then trained to use it in the service of his country. Whatever else could be said about Bennett, he was clearly a very dangerous man.
“You make me sick,” Bennett said, closing and locking the door. “You killed your wife.”
He moved forward with lightning speed. Before Alan could react, he was pinned against the wall. Resistance was futile. Bennett was pure muscle, stronger than anyone Alan had ever faced ... even on the streets of Glasgow. And he was clearly very well trained, utterly disciplined ...
“I’m your supervisor,” Bennett said, after a moment. His voice grew louder. “Your job is to serve your country. My job is to make damn sure you behave yourself. Fuck around onboard ship and I’ll fucking toss your fucking arse out of the fucking airlock. You will not get another fucking chance to do anything. Get me?”
Alan gritted his teeth. “Yeah.”
“If it was up to me, you’d fucking rot in Colchester,” Bennett snarled. “The thought of hurting my wife - of killing my wife - God! You make me sick!”
He leaned closer, so close that Alan could smell ... something ... on his breath. “As far as everyone else is concerned, I’m your assistant, your batman, your gofer, your security adviser ... whatever you want me to be. But don’t ever forget that my real job is to keep an eye on you. I will not let you do anything stupid. Get me?”
“Yes,” Alan said. “I'm not going to fuck it up.”
“Really,” Bennett said, doubtfully. “Do you know how many men fuck up their second chance?”
He let go of Alan and stepped back. “They say you and the other fuckers are necessary,” he said, walking around the table and picking up a paper file. “And they say you won’t re-offend. But personally I have my doubts. You’re not some idiot who had a wee bit too much to drink and ended up mooning the Sergeant Major. You brutally beat a woman to death and seriously injured a grown man.”
Alan straightened his collar. “She cheated on me.”
Bennett glared. “I’m not here to listen to your excuses,” he said. His accent grew stronger, harsher. “My dad beat my mother until I was old enough to stop him. Not little smacks either, proper blows that left her bruised and bloodied and broken. That bastard would beat her senseless for even looking at another man. What makes you think I’ll take any of your excuses seriously?”
He shoved the file towards Alan. “Read this,” he growled. “Once you’re done, I’ll take you to your room. You may no longer be a formal prisoner, but you are not to leave your room without permission unless the base is on fire. Do not attempt to speak to anyone, apart from myself. Got it?”
“I thought I was getting a pardon,” Alan said.
“You’re getting your record scrubbed, after the war ends,” Bennett said. “You are not - yet - forgiven. And as far as I am concerned, you will never be forgiven.”
“You’re very kind,” Alan murmured.
Bennett eyed him narrowly, then sat down. “Read the file,” he ordered. “And then I’ll take you to your room.”
Alan nodded, curtly. He supposed he shouldn't have been too surprised at being supervised, although there was no reasonable prospect of escape. Even if he got past Bennett and over the fence, the prisoner’s implant in his arm would lead the redcaps straight to him. He’d be arrested, dragged back to Colchester and thrown into a cell. And then they’d throw away the key.
Unless they decide to hang me instead, Alan thought. If there really is a war on, they might not want to waste time and effort supervising the prisoners.
He opened the file and read through it, carefully. Someone had done good work. Alan was no engineer, but he knew enough to be confident that the original designer was right and the Workhorse-class freighters could be converted into escort carriers. A set of supplementary notes detailed what had happened during the first conversion, with short outlines of small problems and suggestions for avoiding them in future. None of the issues were particularly bad, with the exception of a small problem with the fusion plant. The engineers had solved that problem by adding a second plant and a number of military-grade power cells. Expensive, admittedly, but workable.
Not enough to keep the ship going indefinitely, but enough to keep us alive long enough to fix the damage, Alan thought, although he had few illusions. A single direct hit would probably be enough to put the escort carrier out of commission - and a nuclear strike would vaporise the vessel. Damage control was going to be an absolute nightmare. We’re not going to be in the line of battle, I hope.
He studied the designs, carefully. The Workhorses did have plenty of interior space, although they were small compared to a full-scale fleet carrier. There certainly should be room for an entire crew, although they were going to be cramped. It couldn't be helped. Besides, anyone who served in the navy would be used to cramped quarters, poor food and a complete lack of privacy.
Just like being in jail, Alan thought, wryly. Except the food isn't much better.
Bennett cleared his throat. “Well?”
“It looks workable,” Alan said. “I’d have to see the carrier itself, of course, but ...”
“I’m sure that the First Space Lord is just dying to hear your opinion,” Bennett said, cutting Alan off. His voice dripped sarcasm. He rose, holding out his hand for the file. “Shall we go?”
Alan shrugged. It wasn't as if he had a choice.
“Sure,” he said. “Why not?”
Chapter Five
“You have got to be joking,” Chief Rating Steven Phelps said.
“I’m afraid not, Steven,” Abigail said. She didn't blame him for being unconvinced. She wasn't quite convinced herself. “This is not a joke.”
She took a long breath as her eyes swept the forward hold. It was the largest space on the ship, now the other holds were crammed with cargo; the only space large enough for her to gather the entire crew. Fifteen men and women ... tiny, compared to a military crew, but very close-knit. The thought of breaking up the core of her crew hurt, even though she knew that some of the younger crewmen were already planning to jump ship. She couldn't really blame them, either. There were few opportunities for advancement on Haddock.
“I’ve been given copies of the briefing notes, which you can review at leisure, but the important details - right now - are as follows.” Abigail paused, allowing them a moment to process her words. “Aliens have arrived - and attacked. Our ship has been requisitioned for conversion into a makeshift carrier, with us expected to serve as the crew. Any of you who aren’t reservists and don’t want to stay on the ship can leave now, if you wish. Changing your mind later will get you into trouble.”
“I don’t know anything about serving in the military,” Fatima Roberson said. The cook leaned forward, one hand playing with a long strand of dark hair. “Is there anyone here who does?”
“I was in the Royal Navy before transferring out,” Vassilios Drakopoulos said. The Chief Engineer looked grim. “It is very different to the merchant service, I’m afraid. But given that we’ll be running the ship, I don’t think our experience will be quite as bad.”
Abigail gave him a sharp look. “Are you staying?”
“You’d only get into trouble without me,” Drakopoulos said, deadpan. “Besides, I suspect I’ll be called back to the colours whatever happens, if the situation is as bad as they appear to believe. Pulling freighters out of the shipping lanes isn't something they’d do unless they felt the situation was desperate.”
“But the situation can't be that bad,” Anson said. “The news broadcasts aren
't talking about aliens, are they?”
“Not yet,” Abigail confirmed. “That will change.”
“And that means the contacts haven’t been that significant,” Anson added. “For all we know, this is a border squabble.”
“Or the start of a full-scale invasion,” Drakopoulos said, quietly. “Or even a probe intended to gauge our response before the main fleet is dispatched.”
“And First Contact was a month ago,” Poddy put in. “A lot can happen in a month.”
Abigail tapped her foot on the hard metal deck. “The situation isn't up for debate,” she said, firmly. “We - I - signed a contract, so I am now obliged to offer my ship and my services to the Royal Navy. I won’t say I’m happy about this because I’m not, but we don’t have a choice.”
She made a show of looking at her watch. “The preliminary refit crews are meant to be boarding at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow. If you don’t want to stay with the ship, let me know before then and I’ll arrange for your transfer to Tallyman. I expect you’ll go into lockdown unless you have skills the Royal Navy desperately needs, at least until the news breaks and there’s no longer any need to keep it under wraps. Everyone else ... make sure you get as much sleep as you can. I imagine tomorrow is going to be a very busy day.”
“No doubt,” Phelps said. “We’re going to have to empty the holds before we start pulling out the modules and replacing them.”
Farris Ashburn cleared his throat. “We have a signed and sealed contract to deliver our cargo to Ceres,” he said. “If we don’t get it there by the end of the week, Captain, they’ll invoke the penalty clauses.”
“If we’re lucky, the cargo pallets will be delivered to Ceres by the navy,” Abigail said. She rather doubted they’d be that lucky. The Royal Navy wouldn't intend to screw her and her crew, but her cargo would be far down the priority list. “And, if we’re unlucky, the Royal Navy has agreed to compensate us for the loss.”
“Assuming there’s an Earth left afterwards,” Drakopoulos said. “Or a Royal Navy.”
Abigail shot him a warning look. “The navy has sent us the refit specs,” she said. “Study them now, then inform me if there are any problems we need to account for before the refit begins. You’ll be supervising the process from start to finish.”
“Will do,” Drakopoulos said.
Ashburn snorted. “Do you trust the navy?”
“I expect that compensation will be paid, eventually,” Abigail said. She understood his problem, but there was no point in going on and on about it. “And as we don’t have any choice in the matter, all we can do is put our faith in them.”
She looked around the compartment. “Anson, Poddy, stay with me,” she ordered. “Everyone else, let me know if you want to leave the ship.”
Anson waited until everyone else had left the compartment, then swung around to face Abigail. “Mum ... Poddy can’t stay.”
“I’m staying,” Poddy said, sharply. “Mum ...”
“She’s far too young to see combat,” Anson said. “The youngest crewman in the Royal Navy will be at least eighteen ...”
“We are born into danger,” Poddy quoted. “We only leave it when we die.”
“She’s a child,” Anson said. “Mum, Poddy should be removed ...”
“I will not,” Poddy snapped. “Mum ...”
Abigail rubbed her forehead. There were times when she thought that allowing her children to serve under her command was a bad idea, even if it did give her a chance to make sure they had the proper skills before they served under a captain who would be less tolerant of mistakes. If nothing else, Anson and Poddy could make emotional demands on her, something the rest of the crew couldn't do. And yet, she understood Anson’s concern.
She sighed, inwardly. On one hand, Anson was right. Poddy was young, far too young to see combat. Every motherly instinct in Abigail’s mind demanded that she send her daughter away, even if it meant souring their relationship. Poddy would hate her, but at least Poddy would be alive to hate her. But on the other hand, her upbringing in an asteroid settlement had taught her that danger couldn't be avoided. Poddy couldn't be wrapped in cotton wool and preserved, let alone protected against every conceivable threat. Abigail had met too many spoilt brats from Earth, girls and boys who’d grown up in a sheltered environment, to want to smother her daughter. There were some things Poddy could only learn from experience.
Which doesn't make taking her into danger any easier, Abigail acknowledged. And she really is too young to serve on a naval vessel.
“You haven’t even lived alone,” Anson was saying. “You don’t know the universe like I do ...”
“You elderly man,” Poddy mocked. “Let me fetch your slippers, then you can have a nice sit down by the fire while I make you a cup of hot milk.”
“Shut up, the pair of you,” Abigail snapped. It was good, she supposed, that Anson cared about his sister. And it was also good that Poddy was confident enough to push back when she felt her brother was being overprotective. But it gave her a headache. “Anson, Poddy, pay attention.”
She waited for them to fall silent, considering her next words carefully. “First, neither of you have any obligation to stay with the ship,” she said. “You’re not reservists and your shipping contracts don’t include military service. I won’t complain if either or both of you want to jump ship now. That said ...”
Anson opened his mouth. Abigail spoke over him.
“That said, we will be flying into danger ... probably. We don’t know anything about the aliens, beyond the mere fact of their existence and apparent hostility. There has always been a certain level of danger, of risk, but this will be worse. And there will be strangers on the ship. Some of them will not be quite so tolerant of your behaviour.”
Anson and Poddy exchanged glances. Anson spoke first. “What’s wrong with our behaviour?”
“You’re arguing with me now, for one,” Abigail said, dryly. She was happy to discuss her decisions with her children - as long as they had privacy - but a naval officer wouldn't feel quite the same way. “And I could point to quite a few others.”
She looked from one to the other. “Like it or not, you are both members of my crew,” she added. “And I won’t toss you off the ship if you don’t want to go. However” - she held up a hand to keep them from interrupting - “there will be risks, some necessary and some ... rather less necessary. If you want to leave the ship, I won’t hold it against you. Either of you.”
“Poddy is a child,” Anson protested.
“I’m fifteen,” Poddy countered. “I’ll be sixteen in four months ...”
Abigail sighed. Poddy’s physical age didn't matter, as far as the RockRats and the Belter Community were concerned. What mattered was her mental maturity and her ability to actually do her job. Abigail herself had shipped out when she was twelve, serving under her paternal uncle. The old man had kept a sharp eye on her, but he’d also let her make a number of mistakes that had become learning experiences. It hadn't been until she became a mother herself that she’d truly understood just how much her uncle had done for her.
But Poddy isn't old enough to go to the Naval Academy, Abigail reminded herself. The groundpounders won’t understand.
She pushed the thought aside. “Poddy has the skills and qualifications to serve on this ship, if she wishes,” she said, flatly. “I do understand your concerns, but ... it has to be her choice.”
Anson scowled darkly, but he knew better than to argue with his mother once her mind was made up. He understood the chain of command ... and that his mother wouldn't tolerate open insubordination. Abigail didn't expect him to be happy with it, just as he hadn't been happy with some of her other decisions. But she did expect him to obey - or leave the ship, if he couldn't obey. It wasn't as if he’d be leaving under a cloud.
“I’m staying,” Poddy said.
“Me too,” Anson said. He smiled, suddenly. “Will we have to salute you?”
“Probably,” Abigai
l said. “And you’ll have to be reasonably respectful to the military officers.”
“Perhaps we’ll get Stellar Star,” Anson said. “Or ...”
“Stellar Star doesn't exist,” Poddy said, in a long-suffering tone. “And nor do those green-skinned babes from that movie you wouldn't let me watch ...”
Anson coloured. “Man Jack doesn't exist either,” he snapped. “That didn't stop you from covering your cabin with pictures of him!”
“Quiet,” Abigail said. “Go back to your cabins and get some sleep. I’ll see you both in the morning.”
“I’m on watch,” Anson said. He yawned, suddenly. “Aren’t I?”
“I’ll take the first watch,” Abigail said. Anson should have been sleeping for the last few hours, just so he’d be refreshed for his watch. But she’d slept instead. “Steven or Carl can take the second.”
The Cruel Stars (Ark Royal Book 11) Page 5
