Fear God and Dread Naught (10 page)

“We have two months to work on our planning,” Harper said, answering her unspoken concerns.  “I think that’s plenty of time to work out the kinks in our system.”

He motioned for them to rise and move back into the reception compartment, where more drinks and cigars were waiting.  Susan politely declined the offer of a Cuban cigar, even though they were staggeringly rare after Cuba had been battered with monstrous tidal waves during the Bombardment of Earth.  There might be vaccines against tobacco damage these days, but her father had always considered smoking a filthy habit.  She’d never really understood why it was so popular.

“I'm sure you’ve all had a private briefing from your governments,” Harper said, once they were all seated.  “And the basic ops plan has not changed.  If we get to Unity ahead of the aliens, we land troops, evacuate the population and then scout out the nearby systems, watching for the inevitable offensive.  If we don't, we evaluate the situation and then either harass the enemy or make a full-fledged attempt to evict them from the system.  Given the nature of the tramlines in that region, JHQ would obviously prefer we evicted the enemy before they manage to turn the Tadpole flank.”

“Which does prove they weren't prepared for war,” Captain Steve Stewart pointed out.  “If they’re having to scramble to get forces in place to secure their flanks, they clearly weren't
expecting
to have to fight.”

“Neither were we before the first war,” Glass countered.  “It didn't stop us assembling a multinational force.”

“Which is what they wanted us to do,” Yegorovich said.  “We could be sailing right into another trap.”

Susan had to admit he had a point.  The Tadpoles had
deliberately
held back after the early engagements of the First Interstellar War, giving the human race plenty of time to assemble the multinational force that had confronted them - and then they’d slaughtered the entire force, leaving only a handful of survivors.  It was possible, just possible, that the new enemies had something similar in mind, if they understood that they were waging war against two separate interstellar powers.  But she didn't see why they
wouldn’t
.  If nothing else, they would probably have recovered plenty of bodies after the first savage battle.

Harper nodded.  “The possibility has crossed JHQ’s mind,” he said.  “And that’s why their commitment is actually quite small, for the moment.  There won’t be a larger commitment until we are truly ready for war.”

“If we ever are,” Jeanette said.  “To us, the loss of thousands of spacers is tragic, but it may have made little impact on the general public.”

“I hope you’re wrong,” Susan said.

“Our population understands that we - they - have to make sacrifices,” Yegorovich thundered.  “And your populations should know it too.”

Harper tapped his glass.  “We depart tomorrow,” he said.  “My staff will be forwarding copies of the first exercise scenarios to you once we pass through the tramline to Terra Nova - we’ll commence simulations and starfighter drills shortly afterwards.  Depending on what news we receive from the front, particularly as we cross the border, we may have time for some proper exercises as well.  Before then ...”

He looked from face to face.  “Does anyone have any concerns that should be raised?”

“A secondary commanding officer has to be named,” Yegorovich said, bluntly.  Susan would have been surprised if he
wasn't
angling for the position himself.  “Right now, both you and your flag captain are on the same vessel.”

“
New York
is a tough ship,” Glass snapped.

“So were the Tadpole dreadnaughts,” Yegorovich sneered.  “It didn't stop them being blown to rubble, did it?”

“Captain Onarina will serve as my second,” Harper said.  He nodded to Susan, who stared at him in shock.  “She’s junior to all of you, but she has both combat and fleet command experience.  Captain Trodden will serve as
her
second, if things go badly wrong.  Right now, I would prefer to keep the chain of command on the battleships.  They’re tougher than the carriers.”

“
Chernozhopi
,” Yegorovich muttered.

Susan ignored him.  She’d been called worse.  And while she’d hated being mocked for the colour of her skin, she couldn't help feeling that she'd done better than many of the spoilt brats she’d known and detested at school.  The little bitches would never know what it was like to command a warship in combat ...

“We are being sent out, among other things, to uphold the honour of the human race,” Harper warned.  If he’d overheard Yegorovich’s comment, he gave no sign of it.  “JHQ would prefer, however, if we were careful during our engagements.  We have plenty of space to trade for time, if necessary.”

“Tadpole space,” Jeanette said.  “If we have to retreat, Admiral, which way do we go?”

“Back towards Earth,” Harper said.  “JHQ’s orders admit of no ambiguity, Captain.  We are not to risk getting bottled up in Tadpole space.”

Yegorovich snorted.  “Let me guess,” he said.  “The person who wrote these orders was not a serving naval officer.”

“They’re trying to please their political masters,” Harper said.  Susan rather suspected he privately agreed with Yegorovich.  “And they are leery about taking major losses if it can be avoided.”

“Of course they are,” Yegorovich sneered.

Susan kept her face expressionless.  Yegorovich might be a jerk - and he’d clearly hoped for a position he could use to make himself look good - but he had a point.  Being bottled up in Tadpole space was not going to happen unless the enemy pounded the fleet into scrap metal first.  And if that happened they were screwed anyway. 

And retreating back to human space would tell them where to go
, she reminded herself. 
They can just follow us into the Human Sphere
.

“They’re the orders we have,” Harper said, patiently.  Susan was quietly impressed at his diplomacy. 
She
would have found it hard to handle Yegorovich for more than an hour or two without considering grievous bodily harm.  “If you want to have them altered, I suggest you petition your government.  They might just be able to talk JHQ into changing its mind.”

Yegorovich snorted.  “They just want a victory,” he said.  “They don’t care about how it comes.”

“Just like everyone else,” Stewart commented.

“Quite,” Harper said.  He looked around the compartment as the yeomen refilled glasses before withdrawing once again.  “Shall we now discuss tactical variables?”

Chapter Ten

“You didn't do too badly,” Lieutenant David Reed said.  “And you managed to miss all the asteroids in your path.”

George nodded in relief.  It would be a year or more, she suspected, before she was allowed to actually take the helm - unless the ship was in deep trouble anyway - but praise from the helmsman was rare.  She’d heard he didn't intend to
stay
on the command track, even though he would eventually be beached anyway.  He enjoyed flying the battleship more than he enjoyed giving orders.

“Thank you, sir,” she said.  “Is there anywhere in space with such a ...
crowded
... asteroid field?”

“No,” Reed said.  “But if you can ace
this
simulation, you shouldn't have any trouble with a more
realistic
situation.”

He cleared his throat.  “If you continue at your current rate, you should be ready to take the exam within the next month,” he added.  “Are you considering a sideways transfer into the helm department?”

“No, sir,” George said.  “I’m aiming for command.”

“You’ll still need to know how to fly the ship,” Reed noted.  He didn't seem offended, merely amused.  “And you’ll definitely need to know what she can do.”

George nodded as she rose from the console and stretched, feeling tired and stiff.  She'd been sitting down for nearly two hours, but it felt longer.  She would have killed for a bath, if one had been available.  But not even the captain had a bath in her quarters.  She’d just have to make do with five minutes under the shower before she took a quick nap.

“Dismissed,” Reed said, after passing her a datachip.  “Make sure you register it before we leave the system or it won’t be added to your permanent record.”

“Thank you, sir,” George said.  It wouldn't do her any good - it wasn't as if there were bonuses for passing the simulations - but it would prove to her uncle that she was actually trying.  “I’ll be back here tomorrow?”

“Probably,” Reed said.  “And well done.”

George smiled as she walked through the hatch and down towards middy country, carefully stepping over a handful of soldiers sleeping on the decks.  It was an accident waiting to happen, she thought; officers and crew rushing to their duty stations when the alarms sounded were going to be tripping over the soldiers and crashing to the deck.  But no one had asked
her
opinion.  She was a midshipman.  Her opinions wouldn't be considered important until she was promoted to lieutenant or even higher up the chain.

Her wristcom bleeped.  “Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam?”

She keyed the device automatically.  “Fitzwilliam.”

“Midshipman Henderson has not reported for his duty shift,” Lieutenant-Commander Jean Granger said.  The tactical officer sounded annoyed.  “Is there a
reason
he hasn't arrived?”

“I don’t think so, Commander,” George said.  She checked her datapad hastily.  If Henderson had gone into sickbay, there would be a note in his file.  But there was nothing.  “He should have been with you ten minutes ago.”

“I am
aware
of that, Midshipwoman,” Granger said.  “Find out what happened to him, then report back to me.”

“Yes, Commander,” George said.

She cursed under her breath as the connection broke.  She’d told the new midshipmen, time and time again, to make damn sure they aimed to reach their duty stations ten minutes before they were actually due there.  Even with the corridors crammed with soldiers, they shouldn't have had any trouble reaching their stations.  And Henderson should have had punctuality hammered into his head at the Academy.  Getting to a classroom late
once
would have been grounds for a sharp lecture by the tutor - and doing it repeatedly would have been enough to get him kicked out.

“Computer,” she said.  “Locate Midshipman Henderson.”

“Midshipman Henderson is in the Midshipman’s Bunkroom,” the computer said.

George blinked in astonishment, then turned and hurried down to Middy Country.  She
knew
Henderson had been sleeping when she’d left the compartment, but he should have been smart enough to set his alarm.  It was hardly rocket science!  Gritting her teeth - it was
just
possible there was a reasonable explanation for the whole affair - she made her way through the hatch and stuck her head into the bunkroom.  Henderson was lying in his bunk, snoring loudly.  George stared at him in shock, then poured herself a glass of water from the dispenser and tipped it over his head.  He sat up so sharply, water dripping from his hair, that he cracked his head against the overhead bunk.

“What ...”

“You are ten minutes late for your duty assignment,” George snarled.  She had to fight to resist the urge to just grab his arm and drag him out of his bunk.  Only the awareness that she might not be strong enough to budge him kept her from doing just that.  “And Lieutenant-Commander Granger contacted me to find out what happened to you.”

She clenched her fists as Henderson stared at her, blinking his eyes in shock.  This was going to reflect badly on
her
.  Never mind that she’d been at her own duty station, never mind that Henderson was hardly a child ... it was going to reflect badly on her.  Lieutenant-Commander Granger wasn't the sort of person to let such a problem slide, not when she was new to the ship herself.  George had a nasty feeling that the XO would give her a stern lecture himself once he heard the news.

“Get up,” she snapped.  “Now.”

Henderson sat upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bunk.  She found it hard to resist the urge to scream at him as he pushed back the blanket.  He hadn't even had the sense to wear his uniform!  It was the only way to catch a few extra moments of sleep before running to one’s station, although Fraser had never let
her
get away with it.  She forced herself to watch as he grabbed his trousers and jacket, then donned them with practiced ease.  If he hadn't looked sleepy, she wouldn't have known he’d only just woken up.

“Get to your duty station,” she ordered.  “And don’t even
think
about trying to get away with it.”

She watched him go, then slowly - reluctantly - keyed her wristcom.  “Commander, he’s on his way,” she said.  “He overslept.”

“I see,” Granger said.  George winced.  She would have preferred an explosion of rage.  “I’ll have to report this to the XO.”

“I understand, Commander,” George said.

“And I shall be assigning punishment duty for Mr. Henderson,” Granger added.  “I trust you will have no objection?”

George resisted the urge to roll her eyes, even though she knew Commander Granger couldn't see her.  It was a bad habit.  But really ... as if she
could
have any objection!  And she didn't have any objection.  Hell, she intended to hand out a few punishment duties of her own too, once Henderson returned.  A fortnight spent cleaning the head should teach him a lesson - and, if it didn’t, there were worse possibilities. 

“No, Commander,” she said, fighting to keep her voice even.  “I have none.”

“Good,” Granger said.

She closed the connection.  George stared at the wristcom for a long moment, then swore venomously, using a whole string of nasty words she’d learned from Fraser.  There was no point in beaching Henderson - he had barely three days of seniority - but
she
could be beached.  And if she
was
beached, she was in deep shit.  The XO had every reason to make sure she
was
beached too, just to make it clear that her family name wouldn't protect her from consequences.  But it hadn't been her fault.

The topmost bunk rustled.  Potter poked his head out.  “I didn't know you knew such words.”

George felt her temper flare.  “And I didn't know you were up there,” she snapped.  “Aren't you meant to be in the lower bunk?”

Potter gave her a maddening smile.  “Felicity was kind enough to agree to a trade.”

He shrugged.  “And you really
should
have made sure that he was up and dressed before you headed to
your
duty station.”

“I’m not a bloody prefect,” George swore at him.  The prefects at her school
had
been responsible for getting the girls and boys out of bed, but they’d slept in the same dorms and shared the same timetables.  It hadn't been a responsibility she’d enjoyed.  Hell had no fury like a boarding school pupil trying to snatch a few extra minutes of sleep.  “And he isn't a bloody schoolchild.”

“You should probably tuck him up at night too,” Potter added.  “And read him a bedtime story to make sure he actually goes to sleep.”

“Shut up,” George ordered.  Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn't eaten for four hours.  “And if you want to read him a fucking bedtime story, you
can
read him a fucking bedtime story.”

Potter ignored her.  “And the wardroom isn't too clean,” he added.  “You really should ...”

“Shut up,” George repeated.  She
knew
he was pushing her, but she found it hard not to give in to the urge to snap back.  Maybe she could ask the XO to beach him ... no, that would make her look bad, particularly now that there was a risk of getting beached herself.  “And as your duty shift starts in two hours, make damn fucking sure that you’re there twenty minutes before it is due to start.”

She turned and stormed out of the wardroom, passing Paula as she returned from her own duty shift.  Somehow, the older woman managed to look as if she’d just stepped out of the shower, rather than working in the engineering department.  George scowled at her and paced down towards the mess, wondering if the cooks would be interested in some help.  Assigning a midshipman to the gallery would be seen as a slap across the face, but Henderson deserved it.  And he couldn't complain without admitting to his own failings.

There was no sign of Fraser in the mess, much to her disappointment.  She would have liked to talk to him, perhaps ask his advice.  It wasn't as if
he
wanted to take her place.  Hell, she was sure he would have sooner slit his wrists than go back to being a midshipman.  But there was no sign of him or anyone else she could have legitimately talked to, not without eyebrows being raised.  Perhaps Potter had stumbled on something after all.  In so many ways, the caste system that pervaded the Royal Navy was
very
much like school.

But everyone here is expected to act like an adult
, she thought, as she took a plate of sausages, chips and beans and found a small side table. 
You can't act like an idiot in space
.

She chewed her food slowly, concentrating on calming herself.  The world always felt better after a good dinner - or so her father had always maintained.  He’d been a great trencherman when she’d been young, although a lifetime of fine dining and heavy drinking had taken its toll.  He would have been horrified at the food in the mess - she had a sneaking suspicion what he would have suspected had gone into the sausages - but that wouldn't have stopped him eating.  If his wife - George’s mother -hadn’t put her foot down after the bombardment, she had a feeling he would have eaten himself to death.

We had to look as though we were tightening our belts
, she remembered.  She’d been too young to truly understand what was happening, but she recalled, all too clearly, the food riots  shown on live TV. 
Or the proles might have revolted
.

She pushed the thought aside as she finished her meal, picking up the tray and dumping it in the cleaner before heading to the hatch.  Her next duty assignment started in two hours, plenty of time to get some exercise before going back on duty.  She walked slowly down to Middy Country, then frowned as she heard banging and clattering from the wardroom.  Who was in there?  Bracing herself, she peered through the hatch and frowned.  Felicity Wheeler was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the deck.