And they will have less room to stray here, he thought, sardonically. No one can keep a secret in a place like this.
His wristcom buzzed. “Captain, this is Richards,” Richards said. “An unknown starship has just entered the system through the Cromwell Tramline. One of our long-range probes picked it up.”
John frowned. The Cromwell Tramline was alien-grade. A Tadpole ship? Another human ship from one of the major powers? Or what?
“Understood,” he said, shortly. “We’re on our way.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Report,” John ordered, as he strode onto the bridge. “Do we have an ID yet?”
“Yes, sir,” Richards said. He rose from the command chair, then nodded to the main display, where a blue icon was steadily approaching Clarke. “She's the Larry Niven, sir.”
John felt his eyes narrow as he sat down. He knew the story; everyone did. The Larry Niven had been built by a commercial shipyard just before the war, then a salvaged alien drive had been bolted to her hull and she’d served as a transport during the latter part of the war. And then her CO and his crew had repaid their loan from the Admiralty, thanks to salvage monies, and taken their ship - and her alien drive - into civilian life. There had been people insisting the ship ought to be seized, John recalled. Common sense, thankfully, had intervened before snatching a ship without any real cause destroyed what remained of the interstellar economy.
“Ping her,” he ordered. The Larry Niven was no threat - even if she had weapons mounted, she would be no match for a genuine warship - but something had made her travel the tramline from Cromwell to Pegasus. “Request she send us an update.”
“Aye, sir,” Forbes said. It would be nearly forty minutes before there was a reply, assuming it was sent back at once. “Message sent.”
“Set up a tracking exercise,” John ordered, as he prepared himself to wait. “We may as well learn something from her presence.”
It was nearly fifty minutes before Larry Niven replied. “Captain,” Forbes said. “They’re requesting a meeting with you.”
“Helm, take us out to meet them,” John said. “Lieutenant Forbes, inform them that we are on our way, then contact Canberra and inform Captain Minion that we will be leaving him behind.”
“Aye, sir,” Armstrong said. A dull shiver ran through Warspite as her drive engaged, propelling her out of orbit. “ETA fifty-seven minutes.”
“Message sent, sir,” Lieutenant Forbes added.
John nodded, then sat down, thinking hard. What had happened to bring Larry Niven to Pegasus? Had they been exploring a new tramline, assuming they hadn't realised that Pegasus had been earmarked for British settlement, or had they expected to run into help? But there was no point in worrying, not now. All he could do was wait.
An hour later, Captain Peterson was welcomed onboard Warspite and shown into John’s cabin. He was accompanied by his daughter, a fifteen-year-old girl who looked around with undisguised fascination, which the crew returned with interest. John sighed, inwardly, as Midshipwoman Powell poured them all tea, then retreated into her compartment. He had a feeling this discussion was not going to be pleasant.
“I’m surprised to see you, Captain,” Peterson said. He was a tall thin man, his head shaved to the scalp. It wasn't uncommon among spacers, John knew; Peterson’s daughter had only a thin fuzz of hair covering her head. “I was expecting to have to run all the way to Terra Nova.”
“We only just started to settle the system,” John said, shortly. He ran through the maths in his head. Assuming Peterson had intended to go to Terra Nova, it was quicker to use the alien tramlines rather than go the long way home. “I wasn't expecting to see you either.”
Peterson settled back in his chair, then frowned. “I shall be blunt, Captain,” he said. “We’ve been making our way around some of the newer colonies in this sector, including Cromwell. I don't know if you know, Captain, but the colony is in pretty dire circumstances.”
“I didn't know,” John said. Cromwell had been isolated by the war, he'd been told; it had only been a few short months since new colonists had finally been dispatched to the isolated world. “What happened, Captain?”
“From what I heard, the river burst its banks and drowned a number of farms,” Peterson said, grimly. “And the new colonists, including a number of wives and children, have not arrived on the planet. The settlers are mutinous, sir. We were actually advised not to land by the Governor, once he had established that we weren't transporting families.”
John frowned. “And did you land?”
“We thought about it, but decided it would be better to head straight for a settled world and request assistance for the colonists,” Peterson said. “We weren't expecting to meet you.”
“No,” John agreed. He keyed his wristcom. “Mr. Armstrong, Mr. Richards, prepare the ship for immediate departure. We’re going to Cromwell.”
Peterson’s daughter blinked. “You’re going to help the colonists?”
“If we can,” John said. He hastily ran through a mental checklist of what supplies remained onboard the freighters, but there wasn't anything that would be helpful on Cromwell. “I can't sit on my butt when civilians are in trouble.”
“Thank you,” Peterson said, before his daughter could say another word. “Do you want us to continue to Terra Nova?”
“Earth, if you can,” John said. He reached into his desk, then produced a secure datapad and pressed his thumb against the scanner. “I’ll write you an authorisation to draw on military supplies to refuel your ship, Captain. Is there anything else you might reasonably need?”
“I suppose there's a hidden charge here,” Peterson’s daughter said. “What do you want in exchange?”
John concealed his amusement with an effort. It wasn't an uncommon attitude; military forces had always been concerned about starships in civilian hands, particularly independent starships. They preferred to keep the ships firmly tied to the bigger corporations or shipping consortiums, even though independent traders helped keep shipping costs low. And Peterson had something just about every corporation would want, a starship capable of traversing the alien tramlines. They’d be happy to do whatever it took to lure him into their clutches.
“I will give you a copy of my report,” he said. He wrote out the authorisation, then stuck a datachip into the datapad and copied it over. “If you deliver it to Nelson Base, Captain, I will consider it quits.”
“That will be sufficient,” Peterson said. “I take it there are no shore leave facilities in this system?”
“Only if you want a bath or a swim,” John said. He smiled at their expressions, then shrugged. “I would prefer you to leave as soon as possible, though. You might be able to draw some new movies and audio tracks from the database before you go, if you wish.”
Peterson’s daughter looked up. “Do you have the latest album by Joan, Jane and Janice?”
“... Maybe,” John said. “I’d have to check the database. There are millions of songs loaded into the core.”
The thought made him smile. He had the distinct feeling that her father would prefer the answer to be a resounding no. Joan, Jane and Janice were best known for producing songs that were used as part of the Conduct After Capture course, before someone had pointed out that actually torturing the recruits was Not Allowed. Or so the joke went. John had heard enough of their music to believe the story, even though it was unlikely.
“You can wait until you get home, Sally,” Peterson said. His voice hardened. “And Dave can wait for the latest Green-Skinned Space Babes too.”
John tapped his terminal. Midshipwoman Powell entered the compartment, a moment later.
“Please help these two check to see if we have any new entertainment in the database,” John said. If Peterson had been away from Earth for the last year, there was probably quite a few songs and movies he hadn't seen. “Then escort them back to their shuttle and inform me when they’ve departed.”
He looked a
t Peterson as the older man rose. “I’ll have copies of my logs prepared for you and delivered to your shuttle,” he said. “Please hand them to Nelson Base, for the attention of the First Space Lord.”
“Of course,” Peterson said. “And I look forward to cashing in your datachip.”
John nodded in understanding. HE3 was cheap, in star systems where a cloudscoop had been established, but it could be extremely expensive elsewhere. Peterson wouldn't have the chance to make additional money if he had to go back to Earth, so the authorisation John had given him might make the difference between going into debt or returning to the outer worlds, utterly unscathed. And Peterson would sooner crash his ship into an asteroid, John suspected, than go into debt.
He watched them leave his cabin, then keyed his terminal. “Commander Watson, Mr. Richards, Major Hadfield, meet me in my cabin immediately,” he ordered. Thankfully, the Marines had returned from their latest exercise on Clarke III. “We have a problem.”
The hatch hissed open two minutes later, revealing Commander Watson and Richards. Major Hadfield joined them a moment later, rubbing sweat off his face. He’d been in the simulator, John realised, feeling a flicker of guilt. Some people - even hardened Marines - had been known to throw up after being yanked out of the simulator without proper precautions. But there was no point in trying to commiserate. Hadfield wouldn't thank him for drawing attention to his problems.
“Cromwell has suffered a major disaster,” John said, and outlined what Peterson had told him. “We will proceed immediately to the system to render what aid and support we can.”
“Flooding,” Hadfield said, when John had finished. “It's something we do have a considerable amount of experience in handling.”
“True,” John agreed. “But you only have a handful of Marines.”
“I would prefer to evaluate the situation once we arrive, sir,” Hadfield said. “Then we can determine where best to commit our support.”
He paused, significantly. “I must warn you, however, that our ability to make an impact may be very limited,” he added. “I was on the ground when the Tadpoles hit Earth. All of 47 Commando and a dozen regular units couldn't make much of a difference after the waves washed over the west coast, sir. The best we could do was get thousands of people out of the area before even the strongest buildings started to collapse. Cromwell is a great deal smaller than Cardiff, but we may not be able to do as much as you might hope.”
“We’d be reassuring the colonists that they haven’t been forgotten,” Richards pointed out, thoughtfully. “If they’re genuinely convinced they’ve been abandoned ...”
“That might not help,” Hadfield said, cutting him off. “You know 48 Commando lost the Deputy Prime Minister?”
John frowned. He’d known the Deputy Prime Minister had died in the bombardment, but he hadn't known how. At the time, he’d just assumed the man had been unlucky, like millions of others. Tidal waves were no respecters of persons, let alone rank and status. He could have been drowned, his body swept out to sea or lost somewhere in the reclamation zones dotted along the coast.
But if 48 Commando had lost him ...
“No,” he said. “What happened?”
“About a day after the bombardment, 48 Commando manages to set a refugee camp up on high ground,” Hadfield said. “It looks like a detention camp, complete with barbed wire, armed guards and awful rations. They have to separate male and female refugees after a couple of unfortunate incidents, which really doesn't help civilian morale. The rain is pouring down like God’s dumping buckets of water on our heads, their clothing is soaked to the skin and even the military-grade tents are leaking. No one is very happy at all.
“And then, along comes the Deputy Prime Minister, right into the midst of the camp,” Hadfield continued. “A couple of the lads from 48 Commando have close-protection duty; they think it’s too much, but the arsehole insists on going into the camp. And then, looking like a man who’s never missed a meal in his life to people who have lost everything they ever owned, he starts wittering on about how they haven’t been forgotten and how the government will help them, if they vote for him when the next election comes around.”
He paused, dramatically. “And they lynched him.”
“Shit,” John said. “It was all covered up?”
“More or less,” Hadfield said. “There were rumours, of course, but there are always rumours about what happened to missing people after the bombardment. The lads on close-protection were sharply reprimanded, I believe, but nothing else was said. I think the PM was probably glad to be rid of a liability.”
“Probably,” John agreed. Politics had never quite recovered from portable video cameras, worked into mobile phones or wristcoms. A recording of the Deputy Prime Minister suggesting that refugees should vote for him to receive help would practically hand the election to the Opposition. “And you think something similar will happen on Cromwell?”
“I think we need to be very careful,” Hadfield said. “And we also need to avoid any suggestions that the colonists will go into debt because of a natural disaster. People with nothing to lose, sir, make the most dangerous enemies.”
“I understand,” John said. “Prepare your Marines for duty on the planet’s surface, Major, and continue to monitor the situation. If you have doubts about sending them down, let me know and we can change our plans.”
“Yes, sir,” Hadfield said.
John turned to Richards and quirked his eyebrows. “I believe we can spare about forty to fifty crewmen, if necessary,” Richards said. “Maybe more, if we are remaining in orbit around Cromwell, rather than exploring the system.”
“Peterson said they lost a freighter,” John said, slowly. Now he’d had a moment to think, he recalled the First Space Lord saying that shipping to Cromwell had resumed before he’d been assigned to Warspite. He’d have to check the records, which would be two months out of date, but he was sure the freighter had been dispatched. “And this freighter was meant to carry their families.”
“Then they will be very pissed,” Hadfield said, grimly. “How long have they been separated already?”
“Five years,” John said, quietly. “It was meant to be five months.”
He looked down at his hands, thinking hard. Naval service always meant long separation from one’s loved ones - he’d been lucky; Colin had been assigned to Canopus beside him - and it could tear marriages and relationships apart with chilling ease. If a naval rating could lose his wife over a few brief months of being apart, he hated to think of what could have happened after five years of separation. Somehow, no matter how hard the Royal Navy tried, long voyages always ended with one or two crewmen being told that their partner had found someone else. It rarely ended well.
We ought to penalise the civilian partner, he thought. He’d had to talk one of his crewmen out of killing himself, back when he’d been an XO. The poor bastard had come home to discover that his wife had not only divorced him, but remarried ... and taken the kids with her. He had even been denied access to his kids, on the grounds that long separations from their father weren't good for them. But it can be hard to make them suffer without hurting any children too.
“Well, shit,” Hadfield said.
John nodded. “Get your men ready,” he said. “Mr. Richards, get work crews ready and start considering what they might need that can be drawn from ship’s stores. If worst comes to worst, we’ll bring in a couple of medics from Clarke.”
“The Governor will love that, sir,” Richards observed, bluntly.
“There’s no choice,” John said. “There’s nowhere else we can beg for assistance.”
He sighed, running through the calculations once again. It would take Larry Niven at least three weeks to make it to Earth, assuming nothing happened en route. If the Royal Navy managed to mount a rescue mission at once, which was somewhat unlikely, it would still take another month to get the ships to Cromwell, unless they used the alien tramlines. And even if
they did, it would only shave a week off their journey.
“There’s Boston,” Commander Watson said, surprising John. “The Americans will help, won’t they?”
“Boston is a small colony,” Richards reminded her. “We can ask, but I doubt they have much to spare. And how would we get any supplies to Cromwell?”
John grinned, although he knew Richards was right. Boston was only a month or two older than Cromwell. The Americans would help, if asked - they had the same obligations as the other spacefaring powers - but they might not be able to do more than provide a handful of trained personnel. But he would worry about that problem when he confronted it.
[Ark Royal 04] - Warspite Page 17
