Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7) (22 page)

“It’s probably a good thing you’re here,” she said.  “Do you have any feel for how they’ll approach the aliens?”

“Assuming they stick with the planned procedures, they’ll monitor alien communications traffic as best as they can, in the hopes of learning their language, then start beaming signals towards the alien homeworld from the outer edge of the system,” Parkinson said.  “That said, we showed the first contact protocols to the Tadpoles, after the war, and the Tadpoles were mystified.  They understood the maths, but they didn't understand some of the other components.”

He frowned.  “If we manage to build up a shared language, we’ll advance forward and attempt a face-to-face meeting.  By then, hopefully, we should have a good idea what the aliens look like and other such details.  We have cultural exchange packages for them that are quite informative, but hold nothing of military value.”

Mason gave him a sharp look.  “Are you sure?”

“Reasonably sure,” Parkinson said.  “They won’t be told anything about the human sphere until we know we can trust them, but details on how we live and work can’t be used against us.  It cuts down on the prospects for misunderstandings later.”

“Unless they find our mere existence offensive,” Susan pointed out.

“They might,” Parkinson said.  “Commander, with all due respect, most of our first contact planning is theoretical.  The Tadpoles announced their existence by attacking Vera Cruz; the Vesy were force-fed human languages by the Russians, once they were discovered.  For all we know, the unknowns might be giant spiders bent on having us for dinner or cyborgs who want us to be one with the collective.  Everything we were taught about discussions with aliens started with the warning to leave our preconceptions at the door.”

He shrugged.  “What do we do if the aliens have two sexes, but only one of them is actually intelligent?  Or what do we do if the alien social system is something we find disgusting?  Or what if the aliens are telepathic, able to read our thoughts?  There’s no way to know what we’ll encounter until we actually do.”

“They’ll be in trouble if they try to read
my
thoughts,” Mason said.

“I can imagine,” Susan agreed.  She keyed her console, bringing up the datapacket.  “Inform me when the admiral orders the fleet to depart.”

“Aye, Commander,” Mason said.

Susan skimmed through the datapacket, but had to conclude - reluctantly - that there was very little to use as the starting point for her analysis.  The survey ships hadn't risked returning to the alien system, let alone creeping close enough to the alien planet to gather more useful data.  She didn't blame them, either. 
Humanity
would take a dim view of someone skulking around the edge of the solar system, even if it
was
a justifiable precaution.  If the aliens had caught the survey ships, they might just have started a war there and then.

Though they shouldn't have been able to track the survey ships back to Earth,
she thought.  It felt wrong to be glad the Tadpoles were between humanity and the new race, but it
was
something of a blessing. 
The survey crews would have destroyed their ships rather than let them fall into enemy hands
.

She sucked in a breath as she contemplated the final report.  The survey crews
weren't
full-fledged tactical experts, but she couldn't really disagree with their conclusions, save one.  She couldn’t see any evidence the aliens were using the tramlines, yet she couldn't understand how they’d managed to develop space drives without understanding the potential of naturally-occurring gravimetric lines.    Maybe they’d missed it, but still ...

They’ll copy the idea from us, if they haven’t thought of it for themselves
, she thought. 
And that won’t take too long
.

“Commander,” Mason said, breaking into her thoughts.  “All shuttles have returned to the ship.  We’re ready to depart.”

“Signal the admiral and inform him that we’re ready,” Susan said, curtly.  They still had an hour, but it was possible the admiral would want to depart ahead of schedule.  “And then send me a copy of the updated crew rotas.  I want to run through tactical exercises while we’re on the move.”

“Aye, Commander,” Mason said.

Susan sighed, inwardly.  The admiral hadn't noticed anything wrong with the captain, as far as she could tell, but that might be about to change. 
Vanguard’s
commanding officer - a man with six years seniority - would almost certainly be put in command of a flotilla, a subunit of the task force.  There was no way for Admiral Boskone to avoid it, not without violating naval protocol and giving offense.  And the hell of it was that Captain Blake probably wouldn’t mind at all ...

And I have no idea how I’m going to handle that,
she thought. 
And I have no idea what I’m going to do if the shit hits the fan
.

“Commander,” Parkinson said.  “The Admiral has uploaded a revised set of files to the datanet.  They’re marked for the crew.”

“Then forward the files to their inboxes,” Susan said.  That was quick, but she supposed there really wasn't that much that needed classifying.  There was just too little data to be of real use.  “Was there anything else?”

“No, Commander,” Parkinson said.

Susan nodded, then sat back in her chair, thinking hard.  It might be time to start planning for the worst.  There was a good chance she’d end up in deep shit, if the Admiralty ever found out, but there was likely to be enough blame to go around anyway ...

The unknowns might turn nasty
, she reminded herself. 
And if they do, we need to be ready
.

Chapter Twenty-One

“You’re being reassigned again, it would seem,” Fraser said.  There was no malice in his voice, no readiness to mock her.  “You’re going to Turret Six.”

George nodded as she took the datapad.  Matters had
definitely
improved in middy country over the last fortnight; Fraser treated her like all the other middies, while she’d made friends with her older comrades.  She was still the baby of the ship -
that
wouldn't change until another midshipman arrived - but at least she was no longer being assigned to every demeaning task.  And Fraser had actually been giving her useful advice ...

She blinked as she read the brief message.  “What do I do in the turret?”

“If you’re lucky, nothing,” Fraser said.  “If you’re unlucky, which you will be because the XO loves calling snap drills, you’ll be controlling the guns as they target enemy starships or hastily replacing overheating components before they explode.”

“Ouch,” George said, passing back the datapad.  At least she had nine hours before she was supposed to present herself at her new duty station.  “I’ll do my best not to let the XO down.”

“That would be a bad idea,” Fraser agreed, dryly.

“Hey,” Midshipman Tim Williams said.  “Do you want to place any bets?”

George shrugged.  Everyone on the ship had been arguing - and betting - over the most important topic of the moment, just what the mysterious aliens actually
looked
like.  George had heard crewmen arguing that the aliens would be little green or grey men, while others had insisted the aliens would be cyborgs or simply progressed beyond the need for physical forms.  She’d been tempted to bet a pound on the aliens looking exactly like humans - the odds weren't in her favour, yet if she won she’d win big - but so far she hadn't joined the betting pool.  Gambling onboard ship could be immensely destructive to morale.

“So far, pointy-eared humanoids are doing well,” Tim offered.  “And bird-like creatures aren't too bad.”

Fraser leaned forward.  “Birds?”

“Well, we've had aliens who practically live in the sea and we've had humanoid lizards,” Tim said.  “And if
we’re
the mammals, then birds are about the only
genus
that hasn't been represented in intelligent form.”

“I don’t think those words mean what you think they mean,” Fraser said, darkly.  “Besides, for all we know, bird-like aliens could be vastly in the majority and we’re in the minority.”

“Then the odds of this new race being bird-like are high,” Tim pronounced.  “And so it’s a poor bet.”

“Only if it loses,” George said.

Fraser snorted.  “But could birds become intelligent?”

Tim stuck out his tongue.  “Could monkeys?”

“Obviously not,” Fraser sneered.  “You’re not intelligent at all.”

“Blast,” Tim said, without heat.  “You’ve proved the fatal flaw in my grand scheme of universal understanding.”

“I think I need to go to bed,” George said.  She removed her jacket as she walked past them, silently cursing regulations under her breath.  She’d have to take a shower before she climbed into her rack and went to sleep.  She understood the reasoning - being cooped up with ten unwashed bodies would become hellish very quickly - but it was still annoying.  “Or I’ll be too tired to see the aliens when they arrive.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to kip when we’re in the next system,” Tim said.

“No, she won’t,” Fraser said.  “I heard we’re going to stay on tactical alert at all times, at least until we
know
the new aliens aren't going to start a fight.”

Tim swore.  “Does the captain have any idea what that would do to us?”

“I'm sure he’d appreciate you telling him differently,” Fraser said, dryly.  “Why don’t you march up to his cabin and tell him that we can't handle double shifts for more than a day or two?  We’ll be sure to visit you in the brig.”

“At least I’ll get some rest,” Tim said.

Fraser snorted, rudely.  George hid her amusement - it was nice to see a more humorous side of her former tormentor - as she finished undressing and hurried into the shower compartment to wash.  Jokes aside, Tim had a point; the midshipmen would be exhausted if they had to pull double shifts for more than a couple of days, even if normal duties were reduced or suspended entirely.  But they had three weeks to get ready before entering the closest system to the alien world ...

She felt a flicker of excitement as she washed herself as quickly as she could.  Aliens!  She might be nothing more than a midshipwoman, but she was still going to make history.  People would talk about
Vanguard
and those who served on her in the same awed tone as they spoke of
Ark Royal
and her handful of surviving crewmen.  Her uncle might have made himself a hero by serving on
Ark Royal
; she’d have the chance to do the same, for herself.  Who knew
what
opportunities would emerge in the next few weeks?

None at all, unless you sleep now
, she told herself, as hot air washed down from high overhead.  The only advantage to serving on a battleship, as far as she could tell, was a higher ration of bathing water.  It wasn't as if the ship was short on water - if worst came to worst, they could mine a handy comet or water-ice asteroid - but there had to be
some
perks reserved for the senior officers. 
And you have to impress your new supervisor tomorrow.

Shaking her head, she pulled on her panties, stepped back into the main compartment and climbed into her rack.  Fraser had already left, heading off to his duty shift, while Tim was playing with his datapad.  He’d met an American crewwoman during his brief period of shore leave - he’d been the only midshipman to win a slot - and they were still exchanging messages.  George wasn't sure if she should envy him or laugh at the growing intimacy.

Good night
, she thought, as she pulled the curtain closed. 
It’ll be morning all too soon
.

***

The report was clear, Susan discovered, as she waited patiently in her cabin for the others to arrive. 
Vanguard’s
stockpile of spare parts was well above the levels specified by regulations; indeed, the logistics officers were surprised that no one had attempted to requisition spare parts from
Vanguard
for one of the other ships.  They’d have kicked up a fuss, Susan knew, if someone
had
; it was common, alarmingly so, for engineering officers to understate the spares at their disposal. 
She
would have been annoyed with any officer who dared try that on
her
ship, but she knew that other XOs weren’t so scrupulous.  Keeping their ship in working order was their highest priority.

She looked up as the hatch opened, revealing Mason and Parkinson.  Mason looked unconcerned - he’d been to her cabin before, several times - but Parkinson seemed unsure of himself.  He’d been on Tadpole Prime, she recalled, attached to the embassy.  The communications officer would have a greater awareness of social strata than most starship officers, even if none of them questioned who was in charge.  It was uncommon for ambassadors to invite their junior staffers to tea and cakes.

“Take a seat,” she urged, as warmly as she could.  She felt almost as nervous as she’d been the first time she’d donned a spacesuit for a high-orbital jump.  “There’s tea and coffee in the dispenser.”

“I’ll be mother,” Mason said, as the hatch opened again.  This time, Reed and Charlotte Watson stepped into the compartment.  “Tea or coffee?”

“Tea for me, please,” Susan said.

She rose and padded over to the sofa as the others sat down.  Reed seemed surprised by the invitation; Charlotte’s expression was completely blank, suggesting she either had a vague inkling of what was up or that she was all too aware that she was the lowest-ranked officer in the compartment.  Mason poured tea and coffee, then passed the cups around before sitting down next to Susan.  She allowed herself a moment of relief that everyone had come without asking too many questions, then took a sip of her tea.

It isn't as if a meeting of the senior staff is a problem
, she told herself, although she knew things could go badly wrong. 
But it will look very bad in hindsight
.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, as she put her cup down on the table.  “There is an important matter we need to discuss.”

She paused, knowing that she was about to commit herself.  Just hearing what she was about to say - just hearing it and not reporting it - could get her junior officers in trouble, when the Admiralty found out.  Susan had gone to some trouble to obscure the meeting from any official logs, but she knew the inboard sensors would have tracked her subordinates as they walked to her cabin.  In hindsight, she should have set up a regular poker game as an excuse to have a meeting without arousing suspicion.

And if one of them goes to the admiral,
she thought,
the shit will hit the fan
.

“Captain Blake ... has lost his nerve,” she stated, baldly.  In hindsight, the captain’s actions suggested a very
definite
loss of nerve.  “He froze up on the bridge during war games.”

“Indeed,” Mason agreed.  “The early analysis of the battle made it very clear that we were caught with our pants down, but we still took too long to react.”

“There was some confusion over who was actually in command,” Reed said.  His voice was flat, revealing nothing of his emotions.  “We weren't sure who to obey.”

“And we only won through luck and the application of brute force,” Susan added.  “If we’d lost, I dare say Admiral Boskone would not have been pleased.”

She tapped the table, meaningfully.  “What’s going to happen when this ship goes into a
real
battle?”

Charlotte looked pale.  “Is that likely to happen?”

“There’s an unknown alien race out there,” Mason pointed out, coldly.  “
Anything
could happen.  If the captain were to fire on an alien ship ...”

Susan felt cold.  How many others had been thinking along the same lines?

“We don’t know there’s going to be a fight, but we have to prepare for the worst,” she said, carefully.  “The damage we took in the war games was simulated.  Any damage we take in an actual fight will be
real
.”

“It might not be so bad,” Reed pointed out, with the air of a man desperately trying to find a bright side.  “Our simulations assumed the worst, repeatedly.”

“Or it might be far worse,” Mason said.  “For all we know, the aliens have a superweapon that can blow
Vanguard
into dust with a single shot.”

“They might,” Reed agreed.  He looked directly at Susan.  “What do you propose we do?”

“We could go to the admiral,” Charlotte said.  “If we have concerns ...”

“We’d have to explain why we didn't do it earlier,” Mason snapped, interrupting her.  “And relieving the captain of command ourselves could end badly.”

Susan nodded.  She’d looked up the precedents, such as they were.  Only two captains had been relieved of duty by their senior officers in the last hundred years; one for gross misconduct, the other for mental instability.  There hadn't been many details in the files, but reading between the lines it had been clear that both sets of officers had had their careers blighted.  The Admiralty wasn't keen on senior officers relieving their commanders.  It cast doubt on the sheer level of authority granted to commanding officers.

And even reporting the problem to higher authority can end badly
, she thought. 
Even if we didn't have to explain why we didn't say anything earlier
.