The brown-haired girl raised a hand. “What do you want us to do?”
“I’m just getting to that,” Bagehot said. He didn’t seem annoyed at the interruption. The Beast would have blown a fuse. “If you don’t mind, I’m afraid I’m going to have to lecture.”
He tapped a switch. The lights dimmed. A holographic image appeared in front of them, a strange blur of lights that made no sense at all. And yet, there was something oddly familiar about it. Richard struggled to place the memory, trying to remember where he’d seen something akin to it years ago. What was it?
“The face of the enemy,” Bagehot said. “The virus. If it has a real name, it hasn’t deigned to tell us. The xenospecialists are fighting holy wars in the corridors of academia over the question of its intelligence. They’re unsure if it really is intelligent, in some sense of the word, or if it simply mimics intelligence as it moves from star to star. It doesn’t matter to us, ladies and gentlemen. All that matters is that it is the implacable enemy of every other life form, known and unknown. Defeat in this war means the end of everything.”
Richard swallowed hard.
“The virus has the numbers,” Bagehot explained. “It is completely willing to sacrifice thousands upon thousands of host bodies to achieve its aims. So far, our only real advantage lies in a slight tech edge…an edge we have to keep if we want to have a hope in hell of winning the war. That edge may be in danger of being lost. The virus may not be intelligent, as we understand the term, but it seems to cope well enough. We’ve seen it bring entirely new weapons systems online in the last five years.”
He shrugged. “And it has a major productive advantage as well. It doesn’t have to expend resources, blood and treasure, on keeping its population relatively content. It can, quite simply, outbuild us. You won’t have heard this on the BBC, of course, but it is steadily grinding us down. We may be on the verge of losing the war.”
The brown-haired girl leaned forward. “Why are you telling us this?”
“Because you need to understand the seriousness of the situation,” Bagehot said, “and why your role is so important.”
He paused. The holographic image turned into an image of a spacecraft that looked like a cross between a starfighter and a shuttle. Richard frowned, wondering where he’d seen something like it before. Naval Command? It was quite possible. There had always been a handful of fanciful designs, some drawn from futures that had never happened, and others that looked like concepts someone might actually try in real life. He’d played with a few of them himself. It made him wonder just how many workable concepts had been tested online before anyone actually tried to put them into mass production.
“This is a Hammer-class gunboat,” Bagehot explained. “You’ll notice that she has larger and more powerful drives than her predecessors, which she pays for by having a smaller crew compartment. She is not a design intended to inspect freighters as they move into secure zones. She’s intended to get near an enemy fleet and survive long enough to complete her mission.”
Richard frowned, trying to understand what the mission might be. The Hammer might carry a shipkiller missile, but unless there had been a real breakthrough, there was nothing she could do that a starfighter couldn’t do better. His eyes narrowed as he tried to work it out. The design didn’t seem to make sense. They were overdesigned for some tasks, and under-designed for others. What was it for?
“There are a number of problems when it comes to deploying even modern missiles against enemy starships,” Bagehot informed them. “These range from a missile being a very obvious target to simple targeting. We don’t want to build expensive missiles that are going to be expended in combat, but—at the same time—we don’t want to produce vast numbers of white elephants, either. The gunboats serve as targeteers for the missiles, steering them towards their targets. You will be flying the gunboats. Your mission will be to last long enough to actually hurt the bastards.”
Richard blinked. “I…”
“Yes,” Bagehot said. “You were learning how to fly gunboats when you were playing Naval Command.”
“You think we’re all going to die,” said another recruit, seemingly a year older than Richard. “That’s why you’re not recruiting people who actually want to join the Navy.”
“We think you—people like you—have a better than even chance of escaping with your lives,” Bagehot said. “I won’t lie to you. The odds will be no better than the average starfighter pilot, who goes into battle with the certain knowledge that a single hit will be enough to atomise him. You may well be wiped out in your first battle. But you’ll have every edge we can give you.”
“Which isn’t going to be that much,” the brown-haired girl said. She sounded stunned. “I don’t think we stand a chance.”
“You’ll be studying in the simulators first,” Bagehot said. “And if you’re not learning how to make it work…you don’t deserve your scores in Naval Command.”
Richard laughed. He wasn’t the only one.
“And if we refuse?” A recruit leaned forward, crossing her arms over her breasts. “None of us signed up to commit suicide. What if we tell you to take your proposal and stuff it up your anus?”
“You’ll be dishonourably discharged from the Navy,” Bagehot said flatly. “Given the circumstances, you probably won’t be sentenced to a penal gang or imprisonment. You will have to undergo some form of national service and, of course, the dishonourable will follow you for the rest of your life. I know”—he held up a hand—“it isn’t fair. But it’s the way of things.”
“You should have told us,” the recruit said.
Richard nodded in agreement, although he saw the logic. The news reports didn’t so much as hint that humanity and its alien allies might be losing the war. Even the dark web didn’t suggest that the war might be going worse than official propaganda broadcasts suggested, not really. He’d never heard the Beast say anything other than an assurance of victory…although a headmaster was actually quite low on the totem pole, wasn’t he? Bagehot probably outranked the Beast, whatever rank the headmaster had held when he’d been in the military. The Navy might have wanted to keep the truth to itself until the new recruits were somewhere they couldn’t blab to the media.
“If any of you want that dishonourable, let me know now,” Bagehot ordered. “I need to pair you up, and I want some degree of commitment to try before I do.”
Damn you, Richard thought. He knew he was a coward. He wanted to stand and run, but his feet felt rooted to the floor. He wanted…he knew he couldn’t, not when his life would be utterly ruined. He should have asked more questions. Now, if he went home, he wouldn’t stand a chance. His mother would disown him, his sister would be ashamed of him, and Colin…oh, how Colin would gloat. Richard had a chance to really make something of himself, and if he passed it up because he was a fucking coward? Damn you to hell.
He remained seated, waiting. Two boys and a girl got up to leave. Bagehot pointed them to the airlock and told them to wait outside, then strode back to the podium. Richard hated him, hated the fact they’d been tricked…hated the fact he hadn’t had a real choice. And yet, if Bagehot was telling the truth, they were needed. Richard wasn’t that patriotic—the Beast had gone on and on so much about the need to love one’s country that the patriotism had been beaten out of him—but he could imagine the consequences if the virus won. Bagehot was right. It would be the end.
“Very good,” Bagehot said. He started to point his finger at recruits. “You and you, together. You and you…”
Richard blinked, torn between relief and fear as he was paired with the brown-haired girl. He liked her on sight, yet…he didn’t even know her name. They had to have something in common—Naval Command, at least—but he’d never found it easy to talk to girls. They always laughed and mocked him for his stuttering attempts to chat them up…he groaned inwardly as they were ordered to sit together. He was too shy to work with her…
The girl leaned forward.
“What’s your name?”
“Richard,” Richard said. “Thrawn777 on Naval Command. You?”
“Marigold,” the girl said. Her eyes opened wide. “Thrawn777? I’m Honor45.”
Richard blinked. “Didn’t you kick my ass a few months ago?”
“And you kicked mine a few weeks later,” the girl said. “I remember it well.”
“Me, too.” Richard swallowed hard. It had never occurred to him that Honor45 might have been a girl. He’d exchanged all sorts of rude taunts and snide comments with her…he’d never thought she might be anything other than a boy just like him. He remembered some of the things he’d said and blushed furiously. If his mother had known he’d said that to a girl, she’d have beaten him to within an inch of his life. “You did well.”
“Thanks.” Marigold smiled. “So did you.”
Richard tried not to look at her too closely. It felt wrong. It was hard to imagine that Marigold and Honor45 were the same person. He tried to think what he would have done differently if he’d known…asked her out, perhaps. But he had no idea where she lived. She might have lived a thousand miles from him or…even as far as the other side of the world. He opened his mouth to ask, then changed his mind. She’d think he was creeping on her. And then their friendship—if they were friends—would be doomed before it had even gotten off the ground.
Bagehot cleared his throat. “Each pair will stand and fall together,” he said calmly. “First, you will learn your trade in the simulators. You can get most of your mistakes out of the way before you actually climb into a real gunboat. Believe me, you will make mistakes. After that, you will be assigned to a proper gunboat and carry out deep-space exercises. If you succeed, you’ll be cleared for duty. Should you fail, you’ll fail together.”
And if we fail, Richard thought, what happens then?
“You will also learn how to comport yourself as naval officers,” Bagehot continued. “We’ll be holding you to the same standards as starfighter pilots. Yes, those standards are lower than the average naval officer, but they do exist. Those of you who push things too hard will regret it. I expect a certain degree of clowning around, but this is not a safe place. The slightest mistake could get you killed. If you do anything that puts the lives of your comrades in danger, you’ll spend the rest of your lives in Colchester. Believe me, you will not enjoy it.”
Richard shivered. He’d heard the stories.
“You are to remain within this part of the academy complex until you receive specific permission to go elsewhere,” Bagehot told them. “Read the safety instructions carefully and take them to heart. The cold equations will bite you if you give them half a chance. You’ll be allowed more freedom as you make your way through the training modules. By the time you qualify, you should have access to just about everywhere.”
There was a long pause. “I know this wasn’t what you expected,” he concluded, “but it’s what you got. You have a chance, a very real chance, to make a difference.”
Or die in the attempt, Richard thought.
“Now, I’m going to show you to your barracks,” Bagehot said. “I suggest you shower, shit and change into your new uniforms. Training will begin in—” he made a show of looking at his watch, “—two hours from now. Good luck.”
* * * * *
Chapter Four
Richard had never shared a room with anyone, even his sister. It felt odd to realise that there were twenty bunks in the barracks, let alone to understand that he was sharing his sleeping space with eight girls. The thought of being able to watch them undressing was muted by the grim awareness that they could watch him undressing, and dire threats from Bagehot of what would happen to anyone who molested a fellow recruit. Richard had no doubt he’d carry out his word. There was something about Bagehot that suggested he’d do whatever it took to keep his promises.
The shock of sharing a barracks room faded as they were rushed from chamber to chamber, where they were taught everything they needed to know to survive in space. Richard had known space was an unforgiving environment, but it had never really sunk in until a grizzled old sergeant explained that they had to be aware of where the life support equipment was at all times. If they weren’t, he’d cautioned bluntly, all they could do was bend over and kiss their asses goodbye. It wasn’t a very reassuring thought, and the only thing that kept Richard from throwing in the towel there and then was a simple awareness that he couldn’t go home again.
And if I did, I’d never have a hope of getting into university, he told himself. And that would be the end.
They kept moving, running through an endless series of drills that underlined the dangers of what they were doing simply by being on the moon, before they were finally urged into a large mess hall and ordered to eat. There were hundreds of tables in the giant compartment, but they were told—very firmly—that they were to sit at their own table and not bother anyone else. Richard understood better than he cared to admit. The other tables were filled with recruits, officer cadets and starfighter trainees, all maintaining a decent distance from each other. It was just like being back at school.
He was tired beyond words when they were finally escorted back to the barracks and told to get a good night’s sleep. He’d expected to have trouble falling asleep, but instead he blacked out almost as soon as he closed his eyes. It felt like he hadn’t slept at all by the time the alarm rang, and they were ordered out of bed, into the shower, and then into clean uniforms. They stumbled from place to place, still half-asleep. It was easier than he’d expected to ignore the girls when his body was desperately crying out for sleep. But sleep wasn’t an option. They were marched back to the mess hall for breakfast, then down a long corridor into the simulator chambers.
“Good grief,” Marigold muttered.
Richard nodded as they saw the gunboats resting on the hangar deck. They looked as if some alien superweapon had chopped them in half, leaving the cockpits intact while slicing off the rear of the craft. And they looked oddly fragile…it took him a moment to realise they were really nothing more than mock-ups, fake gunboats for them to practice on before they were shown the real thing. He felt an odd little thrill of excitement as Bagehot marched up and down, pointing each team to a particular simulator. Their names were already emblazoned on the hatches.
“You will have noticed, I’m sure, that these gunboats are not real.” Bagehot spoke quietly, but his voice echoed throughout the compartment. Richard would have given good money to know how he did it. “You are to treat them as real. You are not to cut corners or do anything you wouldn’t do with a real gunboat. You might not find yourself breathing vacuum if you open the hatch without a spacesuit, but you will find yourself getting chewed out by me.”
He opened the hatches, one by one. “Once the hatches are resealed, with you inside, we will begin the first set of simulations. I’m not expecting you to be aces right from the start, but I am expecting you to take it seriously. If you make a mistake, I will be totally fair and understanding; if you start clowning around, you will regret it.”
Richard listened as Bagehot kept speaking, outlining the basics of gunboat operations as he showed them into the tiny craft. The interior of ‘his’ gunboat—the one he and Marigold were expected to share—was both larger than he’d expected, and significantly cramped. The control console resembled the one he’d used when playing Naval Command, although there were options he’d never seen on the computer game and a set of manual controls beside the touchscreens. The seats looked armoured, more like overgrown dental chairs than schoolroom seats. He shivered as he realised the gunboat would be subject to very high acceleration. The seat wouldn’t provide more than the barest minimum of protection. If the compensator failed, they’d die.
“There are two positions in the gunboat,” Bagehot said. “One seat belongs to the pilot, the other to the gunner. You’ll swap seats every day. I want each of you checked out on both roles before we move to the next stage of the program. You can decide amo
ngst yourselves which role you want now, but remember, you will be swapping regularly.”
Marigold laughed as Bagehot headed to the next gunboat. “Fight you for it?”
Richard flushed. “Rock, scissors, paper?”
“If we must,” Marigold said. She moved her hand behind her back. “Ready?”
She chose rock. Richard chose paper. “Drat.”
“You’ll be pilot tomorrow,” Richard said. He turned to study the chairs. It wasn’t easy to tell which one was which. The set of manual controls rested in the middle of the control system, positioned between the two seats. He kicked himself a second later. It didn’t matter which seat he took. The touchscreens could be configured for either role. “Shall we begin?”
He sat down and carefully figured how to buckle himself into the seat. Beside him, Marigold seemed to be having problems. The Navy didn’t seem to have remembered that it needed to design seats for pilots with breasts. Richard hesitated, unsure if he should try to assist or call Bagehot to show her how it was done. If he did the wrong thing…Marigold let out a sigh of relief as she figured the problem out for herself. Richard looked away, feeling oddly ashamed of himself. He should have done something to help.
The touchscreen lit up when he pressed his finger against it. A red line—SIMULATION ACTIVE—flickered up, then faded into the background. Richard guessed it was to keep trainees from confusing the real world with the simulation, although it struck him as a little pointless. The cockpit windows dimmed a second later, the handful of maintenance techs on the deck fading away. A hatch opened, revealing the inky darkness of space…Richard felt a flash of panic before he remembered the hatch wasn’t really there. He leaned forward, inspecting the virtual world. It was so close to reality that he did need the reminder after all. A low quiver ran through the gunboat as he worked his way through the configuration settings. They were very much like the ones he’d used at home.
The Dogs of God Page 23
