We Lead

(Ark Royal, Book IX)

Christopher G. Nuttall

Book One: Ark Royal
Book Two: The Nelson Touch
Book Three: The Trafalgar Gambit
Book Four: Warspite
Book Five: A Savage War of Peace
Book Six: A Small Colonial War
Book Seven: Vanguard
Book Eight: Fear God And Dread Naught
Book Nine: We Lead

http://www.chrishanger.net
http://chrishanger.wordpress.com/
http://www.facebook.com/ChristopherGNuttall

Cover by Justin Adams

http://www.variastudios.com/

All Comments Welcome!

We Lead Blurb

The conclusion to the third Ark Royal trilogy!

The Second Interstellar War - pitting humans and their Tadpole allies against an enigmatic alien empire - appears to have stalemated.  Neither side can push through to the other’s core systems without risking substantial losses, neither side can gain a decisive advantage.  But when a brilliant human scientist invents a way to jump across the stars without a gravity tramline, an opportunity arises to strike the enemy in their undefended rear.  It is an opportunity that cannot be allowed to pass.

Now, HMS Vanguard and her crew - and the largest fleet ever assembled by the nations of Earth - heads out on a do-or-die mission to challenge their enemies to one final battle ...

... And if they lose, they will never see home again.

Dedication

To my beta-readers.  I couldn't do it without you.

Thanks, guys!

CGN.

Prologue

From: Vice Admiral Joanna Wallenberg, Royal Navy Public Relations Dept
To: Admiral Sir James Montrose Fitzwilliam, First Space Lord
Subject: War Weariness
Classification: Top Secret, UK Eyes-Only

Admiral.

As per your instructions, my department has conducted and completed a survey of both the economic effects of the ongoing war and the public’s attitude to same.  

It is, of course, difficult to correctly assess the public’s attitude to anything.  However, there is a growing sense of war weariness amongst the working population.  There is, if you will pardon the expression, no sense that Britain - and Earth - is under threat, despite the casualties from the Battle of UXS-469.  These are not the days of the First Interstellar War, let alone the Troubles or the Second World War.  While public respect for the Royal Navy - and the armed forces in general - remains high, there is growing concern that our boys and girls are being sent to fight an unnecessary war hundreds of light years from Earth.  

This is not, unfortunately, surprising.  The decade since the Battle of Earth has seen a great deal of reconstruction - and a corresponding upswing in patriotism - but it has also seen a vast percentage of our GNP devoted to rebuilding the navy and expanding our colonial holdings outside Sol.  While this has obvious benefits, those benefits have largely failed to trickle down to the majority of society.  Indeed, a number of MPs were calling for cutting the military budget before the Anglo-Indian War.  The fact that those voices have been largely silenced, in the wake of the brief hostilities, should not delude us into thinking that they have gone away.

The economic picture is a little more hazy.  On one hand, the vast investment in shipyards, starships and colonial materials has uplifted the remainder of the economy, particularly as many trained workers have gone on to open their own businesses.  But on the other hand, the cost of paying for this infrastructure is a major drain on the British taxpayer.  Long-term investments outside the space sector have been limited by the endless demands from the treasury for additional taxes.  The emergency spending bill, which passed through Parliament last year, has only made matters worse.  A little bird tells me that several corporations are seriously considering attempting to shift their headquarters to Luna City or even further afield.

This is not something to take lightly.  If a sizable percentage of our population comes to believe that our resources are being squandered, or that our naval personnel are dying for nothing, we may expect political unrest in the near future.  The post-Troubles taboo on criticizing the police and military has been broken.  Sooner or later, someone will give voice to that unrest.  Furthermore, if the average citizen decides that the colonists are draining Britain of her wealth, he will come to resent them.  That is a recipe for trouble.  It would be unwise, indeed, to repeat the mistakes of the past!

From a purely cold-blooded point of view, it is better - far better - to fight the war in Tadpole space, rather than the Human Sphere.  Better the Tadpoles get devastated than us.  But from a political point of view, the sheer distance between Earth and UXS-469 is dangerous.  It makes it hard for our government to convince the population that the war is genuinely necessary.  And failing to sell the war to the public will eventually lead to political resistance.

Unfortunately, I have no easy solution to this problem.  We are already running the standard ‘Life in the Royal Navy’ documentaries, as well as every other trick developed over the last century to make sure the public does not forget to whom it owes its safety.  However, there are grounds for belief that the effects are limited.  The public may admire and respect the military, but it is less convinced of the value of fighting so far from our homeworld.  

Worse, there is a growing suspicion that other countries are not pulling their weight.  The US, France and China have been staunch upholders of the Alien Contact Treaty, along with our Commonwealth allies, but Japan, India, Russia and Brazil have not.  Nor, too, have other countries.  They have proven unwilling to commit either the required percentage of their GNP or actual naval units.  The impression that we are the sole nation pouring out blood and treasure in upholding the treaties, however inaccurate, is not one we can allow to spread.  But I see no way to prevent it.

In short, sir, I believe this war must be brought to a conclusion as soon as possible.

Chapter One

Captain Susan Onarina opened her eyes, feeling oddly lazy.  She’d served in the navy long enough to feel that she should be jumping out of her bunk and hurrying to the mess before her first shift began, but she wasn't on her ship.  The ever-present background hum was gone.  Instead, she was lying in her old bed in her old room, back in London Town.  She took a breath and smiled in anticipation as she breathed in the familiar scent.  Her father was cooking downstairs.  

She glanced at her terminal out of habit, but there were no priority messages demanding her immediate attention.  HMS Vanguard was in good hands, apparently.  The latest set of refits were going smoothly.  Susan wished, despite herself, that she was back on her ship, but she knew she’d had to take some leave or the ship’s doctor would have complained.  And besides, she’d had to spend several weeks at the MOD, being debriefed after Operation Unity.

Which makes a pleasant change from waiting to find out if I was going to be shoved in front of a court-martial board, she thought, wryly.  She was still surprised she’d been promoted after relieving her previous commanding officer of his command.  But it’s still a pain when I should be back on the ship.

She sat upright and looked around.  Her room had always been small, but it felt smaller now she was a grown woman.  The bed was barely large enough for her, even though she was used to bunking in Middy Country.  Her father hadn't changed anything since Susan had taken the shuttle to the academy to start her training.  The posters of Stellar Star - and two pop singers who’d gone out of fashion a decade ago - were still hanging from the walls.  Her chest of drawers, on the far side of the room, remained untouched.  She couldn't help feeling, as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up, that her old clothes and possessions remained untouched too.

Better to donate them to the nearest charity shop, she thought, as she walked into the shower and turned on the water, allowing it to splash over her body.  It isn't as if I need them any longer.

She allowed herself a tight smile as she washed herself clean, then stepped back into the bedroom and reached for her underwear.  As a mixed-race child in London - and a poor one at that - her early life had never been easy, even though her father had taught her how to fight.  Her first set of schoolmates had been poor too, all things considered; her second set of schoolmates had been wealthy enough to buy and sell a thousand of her, if they’d wanted to convert their trust funds to cash.  They’d mocked and belittled the scholarship girl who’d never quite fitted in ...

... But she’d proved herself.  And that was all that mattered.

She finished dressing, then opened the top drawer and studied the photographs.  The young girl she’d been - with a brilliant smile - had been replaced by a gawky adolescent, then by a newly-minted naval officer in a midshipwoman’s dress uniform.  She held the latter up for a long moment, realising just how far she’d come.  That young woman hadn't known she’d have to relieve a commanding officer, let alone run the risk of being hanged.  Shaking her head, she put the photograph back in the drawer and removed another one.  Her parents smiled out at her on their wedding day.  They hadn't known, either, that death would separate them in a few short years.

And being motherless didn’t help either, Susan thought, sourly.  Everyone thought it was only a matter of time until my father remarried or got deported.

She studied the photograph for a long moment, wishing she had more memories of her mother.  A white woman with long blonde hair and a brilliant smile ... Susan looked in the mirror, silently comparing herself to her mother.  Her skin was dark brown, her hair was black, but their cheekbones were identical.  She had her father’s dark eyes in her mother’s face.  And maybe ...

“Susan,” her father called from downstairs.  “Food!”

“Coming,” Susan shouted.

She hastily returned the photographs and shut the drawer, silently promising herself that she’d come back after breakfast and clear them out.  Too many of her old possessions were useless now, even though her father had preserved them.  The clothes, the shoes, the handful of books and trinkets ... she hoped, suddenly, that her father hadn't found some of her more embarrassing possessions.  Grown adult or not, knowing that her father knew about them would be awkward.

The stairs creaked uncomfortably as she made her way down and into the kitchen.  Her father’s restaurant - and the apartment above it - was solid, but parts of it looked shabby, as only an old building could look.  The handful of photographs nesting on the walls only made it look worse.  She’d always been embarrassed to bring her friends home, fearing their reaction.  And yet, the ancient building had survived the bombardment when so many others had fallen down, when the ground shook.  Her father had had the last laugh.  

She fell back into old habits as she entered, laying the table while Romeo Onarina - her father - stirred the pot over the stove.  Susan had never been allowed to laze around as a child, unlike far too many of her schoolmates.  She felt a flicker of embarrassment, mixed with shame, at just how badly she’d resented her chores as a child.  And yet, they’d helped prepare her for boarding school and a naval career.  Her father, bless him, had known what he’d been doing.  She sat down and waited, smiling, as her father picked up the pot and carried it over to the table.  The smell was heavenly.

“Best compo,” her father said, cheerfully.  “You’ll love it.”

Susan had to smile.  Her father had been a soldier - and an acknowledged expert in turning inedible rations into something people could eat.  He might not serve compo to his customers - she hoped he didn’t serve compo to his customers - but she’d eaten quite a few makeshift dinners when she’d been growing up.  Some of them had been surprisingly tasty, given what had gone into them; others, less pleasantly, had tasted of cardboard or worse.  But he hadn’t made her compo for breakfast, thankfully.  Instead, the scent of brown stew chicken rose to her nostrils.

She leaned back and studied her father as he started to ladle stew into her bowl.  He was black, his dark hair trimmed close to his scalp in a distinctly military manner.  His dark eyes sparkled with amusement, even though he rarely smiled with his lips.  It still felt odd to be taller than him, even though she’d matched and exceeded his height back when she’d turned eighteen.  Part of her still felt like a child in front of her father.

Her father sat down facing her, then motioned for her to tuck in.  Susan did, savouring the taste of chicken and spices.  Her father ground his own, she knew, following a recipe he claimed had been handed down from his grandmother.  Susan had only met the formidable woman once, during a brief visit to Jamaica, but she believed it.  Her great-grandmother had been a remarkable cook.

No wonder the restaurant is so successful, she thought, wryly.  There aren’t many places like it in London now.

“Sandy was asking about you,” her father said.  “I believe he’s still unmarried.”

Susan snorted.  Sandy Devonshire had been her best friend back when she’d been a child, before she’d won the scholarship to boarding school.  They’d stayed in touch for a while - and even dated twice - before she’d gone into the navy and he’d been called up for National Service.  But they’d gradually lost touch with each other after the war.  She had no idea what had happened to him.

“I haven’t heard anything from him,” she said, finally.  “Is he the only person to come calling?”

“A bunch of reporters turned up,” her father said.  “They were very interested in hearing stories of your childhood, so I told them about the quarry ...”

“I hope not,” Susan said.  She’d been nine when she and a few friends had broken into the quarry and gone climbing.  It had been a dare, but it had also been incredibly stupid.  They’d been lucky not to be marched home by the police.  “You didn’t, did you?”

“I could have done,” her father teased.  “And I could also have told them about Aunt Dahlia’s flowers ...”

Susan groaned.  “You didn’t.”

“Of course not,” her father said.  “I did tell them about your academic achievements, but they weren’t so interested in those.”

“Probably not,” Susan agreed.  She’d done well at Hanover Towers, but she’d lacked the connections necessary to really benefit from a boarding school for aristocrats.  “Do you think they interviewed everyone?”

“I guess so,” her father said.  “There’s quite a few older folk around here who’ll remember you.  To say nothing of your old school chums ...”

Susan sighed.  Mixed-race kids were unusual, particularly ones with immigrant parents.  The Troubles had left scars in their wake, bad scars.  She’d probably be remembered by people who’d never done more than pass her in the streets, just because her skin colour made her stand out.  If her father hadn't been a soldier, if there hadn't been dozens of other former soldiers in the community, life would have been a great deal harder.  And now ... she was probably the most famous person to emerge from the community.  She couldn't help wondering what would have happened if she’d faced a court martial instead.

Dad would have been in trouble, she thought, bitterly.  Everyone here is patriotic as hell.

“I don’t think you’ll have to bribe anyone to keep your secrets,” her father added.  “Unless you’ve done something I don’t know about ...”

“I haven't,” Susan protested.  Even if she had, the community would probably close ranks against anyone who betrayed her to the media.  “I was a good girl.”

“Glad to hear it,” her father said, dryly.

He leaned forward, meeting her eyes.  “Why didn't you tell me what was wrong?”

Susan didn't have to ask what he meant.  She’d sent him a brief message, when Vanguard returned to Earth after the Battle of UXS-469, but she hadn't given him many details.  And she’d gone into custody on Titan shortly afterwards.  Her father had contacted lawyers and generally made a fuss, but he’d gotten nowhere.  Too many people in high places had warned him to keep his mouth closed until a decision - any decision - was reached.

“It was my problem,” she said, finally.  “You couldn't do anything to help.”

“I thought fathers existed to fix their daughters’ mistakes,” her father said, dryly.

“I don’t think you could fix this mistake,” Susan said.  

She shook her head.  Her father wasn't the only father she knew who’d taken good care of his daughter.  She knew a father who’d beaten up his daughter’s boyfriend after he’d turned abusive - and a father who’d shelled out hundreds of pounds after his daughter had vandalised a war memorial - but her mistake had been on a very different scale.  If, of course, it had been a mistake.  Vanguard had come alarmingly close to being blown out of space when the Contact Fleet had been jumped.  The medals she’d been given after she’d been officially cleared suggested that she had some new friends in high places.

“I would have tried,” her father said.  

“You can't fix everything,” Susan pointed out.  “I plotted and carried out a mutiny, technically speaking.  They could have hanged me.”

She sighed.  Relieving a superior officer of his post - particularly under fire - was not encouraged.  In truth, she was surprised she hadn't been told to quietly resign, thus balancing the need for reward and punishment.  She hadn't dared to hope that she'd be left in command of Vanguard.  It had simply never occurred to her that her actions would have created a political headache for the government, a headache that could only be resolved by confirming her as Vanguard’s new CO.  

And I’ll probably be kicked out once the war ends, she thought, cynically.  If the war ever does end ...

“I would have tried,” her father said, stubbornly.

He met her eyes.  “You’re not the only person to consider taking such steps.”

Susan blinked.  “You did?”

“Yes,” her father said.

He looked down at the table for a long moment.  “I didn't have a hope in hell of going to Sandhurst,” he said.  “When I joined the army, I was sent to Catterick for basic training and then assigned to the Yorkshire Regiment.”

Susan nodded, impatiently.  A penniless nobody from Jamaica, without connections ... he’d have to do very well to win one of the coveted spots at Sandhurst.  And he hadn't.  Instead, he’d been trained and then slotted into a regiment.  Jamaica had a long history with the British Army, but there was no specifically Jamaican regiment.  Only the Ghurkhas and the Sikhs had that honour, for better or worse.  It was still a matter of hot dispute.

“I did well, the first couple of years,” her father added.  “We were on patrol, operating from forward bases in Africa and the Middle East.  Mainly pirate-hunting, though we got in a little barbarian-chasing too.  I was fortunate enough to be promoted to corporal with a promise of a prospective promotion to sergeant, if I chose to throw my hat into the ring for NCO training.”

“Which you had,” Susan said.

“This was before my promotion to sergeant,” her father said.  He shrugged.  “We get a new chap straight out of Sandhurst - a thick-headed second lieutenant with a chin so weak you’d think he’d go have it fixed.  Talks like a cup of weak tea passing its way through my digestive system, acts like he wasn't even there a week before getting kicked out.  Oh, and did I mention he was the third son of the Duke of Somewhere?”

“No,” Susan said.  She had a nasty feeling she knew where the story was going.  Someone with such strong family connections would be virtually guaranteed a place at Sandhurst, regardless of his qualifications.  “What happened?”

“Officers like that ... everyone prefers they just stay in the tents, get drunk and claim the credit,” her father told her.  “It would have rankled, of course, but it would have been preferable.  This one was too dumb to realise that he really should listen to his NCOs, if he insisted on exercising direct command.  He changes everything because he thinks it should be different ...”

Susan nodded.  She’d met quite a few officers who’d insisted on stamping their authority on their ship as quickly as possible, even if their changes were largely cosmetic.  It had been annoying, back when she’d been a junior officer.  Now, she rather understood how those officers had felt.  They’d needed to make it clear that they were in charge.

“And then we get into a firefight,” her father added.  “I’m meant to be leading the patrol, but thickhead decides to take command himself.  Not his job, but ... hey, he’s the superior officer, so I swallow it.  And then he leads us straight into an ambush, which gets us pinned down in a defile.  The bastards can't get to us, but we can't get out either.  Bullets are pinging everywhere and it looks bad.

“Thickhead decides to organise a mass charge, right up the side and into the teeth of enemy fire.  Brave, I suppose, but fucking stupid.  It’s the sort of thing that only works if you have a patriotic scriptwriter on your side.  Our body armour is good, but it’s not that good.  I put my foot down and he starts screaming at me, threatening everything from a whipping to being fired out of a cannon.  And I start seriously thinking about putting a bullet in his brain.”

Susan swallowed.  “But you didn't?”

“The Household Cavalry showed up and drove the insurgents away before we could mount the charge or I could kill him,” her father said.  “Someone with more rank than I must have ... discussed ... the whole affair with him, because he was surprisingly quiet for the rest of the deployment.  I think he took early retirement and left a few years later.  He was certainly never put in command of deployed troops again.”

“Good,” Susan said.  

Her father leaned forward.  “You did the right thing in relieving your commanding officer of his post,” he said.  “But you did the wrong thing in not telling me.”

Susan shrugged.  “Would you have told your father, if you had shot the idiot?”

“I would have had to tell him something,” her father said.  He conceded the point with a sly nod.  “But he wouldn't have been in any position to help.”

“Neither were you,” Susan said.  

Her father sighed.  “At least you survived,” he said.  His eyes twinkled.  “And you’re getting older.  Any chance of a husband or children yet?  I could do with grandchildren.”

Susan shook her head.  “I haven’t met anyone, father,” she said.  “My career makes it harder to meet men.”

“I met your mother while I was a serving soldier,” her father pointed out.

“That’s different,” Susan said.  “I’m a commanding officer on a battleship.  The men I meet are either my superior officers or my subordinates.”

“Then spend more time meeting civilians,” her father said.  “Should I ask Sandy if he wants a date?”

Susan would have blushed, if her skin allowed it.  “No,” she said, horrified.  “Father ...”

Her father’s eyes sparkled with amusement.  “Your mother would have approved of him,” he said.  “And he’d understand the demands of your career.”

“I’m not interested at the moment,” Susan said.  “And I don’t know if I’ll ever be.”

“There’s more to life than serving in the military,” her father said.  He waved a hand around the kitchen.  “I can swear to that, Susan.”

Susan shrugged.  She liked the restaurant - she’d spent most of her holidays waiting tables and cleaning after the doors were closed - but she didn't want to spend the rest of her life there.  Too many of her friends were trapped in the community, even after the war; unable to leave, unable to build lives away from their childhood homes.  

“Perhaps,” she said.  “But, for the moment, the navy is my life.”

Chapter Two

“Keep your fucking head down!”

George ducked into the mud as a spray of bullets rattled over her head, trying to compress her body into as small a target as possible.  She knew, intellectually, that the bullets weren't real, but the whole scenario was terrifyingly realistic.  The exercise ground near Hereford was designed to push soldiers to the limit - and woe betide the soldier who treated the exercises as a game.  They might not be shot, if they made a mistake, but they would have to face the wrath of the exercise coordinators and their superior officers.

And people have died out here, she thought, as the ground shook violently.  She stayed low, praying it would be over soon.  Accidents happen.

She glanced up as the shaking came to an end.  A line of Royal Marines were running forward to take up defensive positions, their rifles at the ready.  Everyone knew the enemy - the opposition force - was on the march.  They’d be hit at any moment.  She ducked down again as a pair of aircraft zoomed overhead, then cursed her own mistake as she realised they were friendly.  The emplaced antiaircraft weapons to the rear would have fired on them if they’d been unfriendly.

And no one flies now if they can help it, she reminded herself.  The HVMs and ground-based lasers were more than capable of blowing anything out of the sky, even a modern stealth aircraft.  She’d seen simulations of wars between the Great Powers that ended up looking like a modern version of the First World War.  The enemy would slaughter our aircraft as mercilessly as we’d slaughter theirs.

“Get up,” Sergeant Roberts snapped, as he ran past.  “Dig yourself a fucking foxhole!”

George nodded, scurrying forward until she was just behind the trench.  Digging foxholes hadn't been covered in the academy, but she’d learnt hard lessons since she’d been seconded to Hereford.  She wasn't quite sure why her superiors - and her family - wanted her to learn groundpounder skills, yet ... she had to admit part of her had enjoyed it.  But the rest of her wanted a shower, a long nap and a flight back to HMS Vanguard.  The battleship had been a hard posting, harder than she’d anticipated, but she’d been clean.  Right now, George was covered in so much mud that she suspected she’d need a series of showers just to dig down to her bare skin.

She pulled her entrenching tool from her belt and set to work, digging into the ground.  The marines were digging with terrifying speed, putting together a trench that looked more sturdy than her own pathetic efforts.  She gritted her teeth and worked harder, wishing she’d had longer to prepare.  It was impossible to forget that each of the marines had at least three years experience, far more than herself.  As far as they were concerned, she was little better than a raw recruit.

“Incoming,” someone shouted.

George dived into the foxhole, cursing the puddle of water at the bottom, as mortar shells landed around their position.  Dirt tumbled into the hole, mocking her.  Water dribbled down afterwards, slowly flooding the bottom.  Her boots were good, she knew, but she could still feel water soaking her feet.  She’d have to be careful, she reminded herself.  She hadn't run the risk of bacterial infections since she’d escaped boarding school.

Where the gym mistresses were all frightfully keen, she recalled.  She’d enjoyed playing games, but some of the other girls had considered gym a foretaste of hell.  If you weren't a player - and a good player at that - the gym mistresses hated you.  What does it say about them that drill instructors are nicer people?

She smiled at the thought as she carefully lifted her head and peered south.  The enemy was somewhere in the distance, hidden behind a thicket of trees.  They’d be probing north, if the intelligence briefing had been remotely accurate, searching out the Royal Marines before they mustered a counterattack.  And they already knew where the marines were, she reminded herself, sharply.  No one would call down a mortar strike at random and expect it to hit someone.

Someone moved, behind her.  She turned to see Sergeant Roberts, hugging the ground.  He was a short burly man, so immensely muscular that she was tempted to suggest that he had muscles on his muscles.  She found him a little intimidating, even though he lacked the near-sadism practiced by her gym teachers.  He’d certainly made it clear that he would be treating her just like any other recruit, despite her youth, sex and family connections.  And the hell of it, she knew, was that he was right.  The Royal Marines couldn't afford weak links, even in their naval liaisons.

“Get your com out,” he growled, pitching his voice low.  “They’ll be coming soon.”

A rattle of gunfire, in the distance, underscored his words.  George nodded, then pulled the terminal off her belt and checked the datanet uplink.  Thankfully, the exercise coordinators had decided that enemy jamming would be ineffective - this time.  The close-air support network opened up in front of her, showing her exact location on the map.  She let out a sigh of relief as she entered her ID codes, then settled down to wait.  It wouldn't be long now.

She cursed her digging as the ground quivered, wishing she’d been allowed to join the marines in their trench.  But no, she’d been told to dig her own foxhole and hide in it.  The marines were skilled diggers, she knew; she wouldn't have got in their way ... she sighed, pushing the thought out of her head.  Sergeant Roberts - and his superiors - no doubt had their reasons, even if they didn't make sense to her.  Besides, she was meant to pull her own weight.

An odd silence fell over the battlefield, broken only by bursts of gunfire in the distance.  She thought she heard another aircraft, but there was nothing in the grey sky when she looked.  A couple of marines hurried past her, expanding the trench to create an escape route, if necessary.  She’d been surprised when she’d first seen them doing it, two months ago, but she’d learnt hard lessons since.  Trying to escape by running on the surface was just asking for a bullet in the back.

The marines glanced at her, jabbed a finger towards the escape route to confirm she knew where it was, then headed onwards.  George sighed.  Three months of training with the marines, three months of tagging along ... and they still hadn't warmed up to her.  They were polite enough, she supposed - she’d heard worse in Middy Country - but they weren't very welcoming.  She wasn't sure if it was because of her sex or because she’d been forced on them at the last moment - or because they didn't expect her to make it.  Maybe it was her sex.  There were no female Royal Marines.

But they’ve obviously worked with women before, she thought, sourly.  Everything from intelligence agents to liaison officers.

The gunfire grew louder.  George peered towards the trees, seeing shapes flittering forward and into the muddy field.  The enemy was advancing slowly, pushing forward ... they definitely knew the marines were there.  But they might also hope that the marines had been killed by the bombardment, clearing the way across the battlefield.  She tensed, placing her terminal by the side of the foxhole and aiming her rifle.  Maybe she wasn't as good a shot as the marines.  She could still take down a few enemy soldiers before they had to retreat ...

She braced herself, careful to keep her finger off the trigger.  Sergeant Roberts had warned his squad, in graphic detail, precisely what would happen to anyone who fired before he issued the order.  George had no intention of drawing his wrath, not now.  She had no way to be sure, but she had a feeling that her time on the exercise field was drawing to a close.  And then?  She honestly had no idea.  Shipped back to Vanguard or ...?

“Fire!”

George fired, automatically.  The lead enemy soldiers dropped, their successors falling to the ground and taking cover as the marines opened fire.  George searched for a second target, but saw nothing.  A handful of enemy soldiers were still in the trees, but they were low ... a rumble echoed through the air, sending more mud cascading into her foxhole.  A trio of tanks were advancing north, straight towards the marines.  The marines might be able to stop the enemy infantry, but the tanks ...?  Their bullets would just bounce off the tanks.

“Fitzwilliam,” Sergeant Roberts snapped.  “Call in a strike!”

“Yes, Sergeant,” George shouted back.

Her fingers danced over the terminal, tapping in orders.  She cursed the safety precautions built into the network, even as she ordered an immediate strike.  But they were necessary.  It wouldn't do to accidentally call in a strike on her own position.  The command went into the network ... she braced herself, silently praying that the strike wouldn't be aborted by some REMF sipping tea in an office several miles from the front lines.  She’d never really understood the resentment some of the groundpounders felt for the Royal Navy - and the army’s own uniformed bureaucrats - until she’d started training with the marines.  As bad as her early days on Vanguard had been, they’d been wine and roses compared to training with the marines.

The notification popped up in front of her.  “Ten seconds!”

“Call at two,” Sergeant Roberts ordered.

George watched the seconds tick down to zero, hoping - desperately - that nothing would go wrong.  Some of the strikes she’d called in had been disrupted, either by enemy counterbattery fire or long-range guns being retasked at very short notice.  It awed her to think there was a whole network of guns, missile launchers, aircraft, drones and orbital bombardment stations waiting on her command, but she knew she wasn’t the only Forward Strike Controller on the battlefield.  Even without political interference, the network might decide that someone else - perhaps someone in danger of being overrun - needed the strike more than her ...

“Two seconds,” she shouted.  “Two seconds!”

She ducked down as the missiles flashed overhead and slammed into their targets.  The ground shook violently, the walls of her foxhole crumbling inwards until she was half-buried in the mud.  She forced herself to remain still, even though her instincts were demanding that she scramble out before she was buried completely.  Being hit by a piece of flying debris would be embarrassing, particularly as it would be a real injury.  The British Army took safety seriously, but there was no way to prevent accidents on an exercise ground.  Shit happened.  

The ground stopped shaking.  “Get up,” Sergeant Roberts snapped.  “Back to the next line of trenches!”

George pulled herself free of the mud and looked south.  There was nothing but burning wreckage where the enemy tanks had been.  Her head hurt, just for a second, as she tried to understand what she was seeing.  She knew the tanks hadn't been real, right?  Or perhaps the missiles hadn't been real?  Or ... she dismissed the thought as she crawled towards the escape trench, determined not to give the marines an excuse to hurry her along with a kick.  The battlefield - partly simulated or not - was lethal.  A mistake could get her killed.

And a simulated death will still be held against me, she thought.  And if others die because of me ...

She followed the marines, silently grateful for the hellish exercises they’d put her through when she’d arrived.  Walking over the Beacons  had been unpleasant - the old sweats had cheerfully informed her that she’d been steered away from the parts used by the SAS and Pathfinders - but it had built up her endurance.  She might be cold, muddy and exhausted, but she could keep going.  Behind her, she thought she heard the sound of engines.  The enemy was clearly gearing up for another push.  But Sergeant Roberts didn’t seem bothered, so she did her best to ignore the sound.  The enemy might be deterred by the missile strike.

We hope, she thought.  There’s no one in place to call in a second strike.

They reached the rendezvous point and stopped.  Some enterprising soldier had set up a stove and was boiling water, allowing soldiers and marines to have a mug of tea.  George removed her mug from her rucksack, found a teabag from her emergency supplies and joined the queue for water.  The soldier’s eyes went wide when he saw her, glancing at her muddy chest as if he wasn't quite sure if she was male or female.  George resisted the urge to giggle as he stared at her.  She could probably have passed for a man, if someone hadn't already known she was a woman.  She’d never been particularly well-endowed.

She sat down and drank her tea quickly, allowing the liquid to warm her.  It wouldn't be long, she was sure, before they’d be going out on the march again.  A dozen different units - soldiers and marines - seemed to have arrived at the RV point simultaneously, their sergeants hastily reorganising them into new units.  It was a test, she suspected.  Soldiers could fight well in their original units, but could they fight when plugged into another unit?  Better to find out on the training field than on the battlefield.

A hand landed on her shoulder.  “Bearing up, Georgina?”

George scowled.  Lance Corporal George Michelet - they shared the same first name, at least as far as she was concerned - was an ass.  Or someone determined to needle her into doing better ... she wasn't sure and she didn't really care.  He reminded her of Lieutenant Charles Fraser, only Fraser had been pissed at her for her social standing instead of merely being a woman forcing her way into a man’s world.  The fact that George hadn't really been offered a choice seemed lost on him.

“I could go on for years,” she lied.  Her body was starting to ache, now she was sitting down, but she was damned if she was showing weakness.  “How about you?”

“Make sure you eat something,” Michelet told her.  It was impossible to tell if he was trying to help or setting her up for a fall.  “A little bird says we’ll be on our way in five minutes.”

George eyed him for a long moment, then dug a ration bar out of her belt and opened it.  The bar tasted like cardboard, but she’d been assured it contained all the nutrients a soldier needed on the battlefield.  She was surprised they didn't taste better.  Civilians might be given the tasteless bars to encourage them to buy more regular food, but soldiers?  They didn't have much of a choice about what they ate on the battlefield.  She wasn't the only one eating, either.  Soldiers knew to eat when they could.

Sergeant Roberts called them to attention four minutes later, then led the squad out on a long march.  George forced herself to keep moving, even though the ache was getting worse.  The battlefield was shifting, apparently.  She wanted to look at her terminal, to download the latest update, but she knew she didn't have time.  They reached a hill and marched up it, turning when they reached the top.  Smoke was rising from the south, suggesting that the enemy had resumed its advance.  She listened, but heard nothing apart from the beating of her heart.  It meant nothing.  Battlefields, she’d been told, always had odd acoustics.  One unit might be under attack, yet its neighbours might not hear a thing.

“Dig in,” Sergeant Roberts snapped.  “The enemy is on the march.”

He waved to George.  “Get your terminal ready,” he ordered, sharply.  “You’ll be calling down fire on the bastards, when they show themselves.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” George said.

She took the terminal out and hastily linked into the command datanet.  It was patchy, alerts blinking up to warn her that the enemy jamming was finally taking a toll.  She had to check and recheck their location four times before she was sure everything was correct, then sat down in the trench to wait.  This time, at least, she could share with the marines.  They didn’t seem inclined to insist that she dig her own foxhole.

“Here they come,” Sergeant Roberts said, ten minutes later.  “Start calling down strikes.”

George nodded, fingers flying over her terminal as the enemy columns came into view.  A set of tanks, backed up by APCs ... it was the sort of advance that no one had seen on Earth for decades, at least in the civilised world.  Who would send tanks against a Great Power that could call down strikes from orbit?  But ... she hastily sent the orders, despite glitches in the command network.  And then the response popped up in front of her ...

Her blood ran cold.  She’d fucked up.  No, the system had been fucked.  But it didn’t matter whose fault it was, not now.  She’d called down a strike on her own position!

“Get out,” she screamed, desperately.  The KEW was already inbound.  It couldn't be stopped, even if she managed to alert her superiors.  “Blue-blue!  Blue ...”

The marines didn't hesitate.  They scrambled for the edge of the trench, clambered out and ran for their lives.  George snatched up the terminal as she followed them, hoping they could get out of the blast radius in time.  And then ...

Her arms and legs snapped together, rendering it impossible to move.  She tripped and fell, landing face-first in the mud.  Cursing, she twisted her head to make sure she could breathe, then glanced backwards.  The simulated KEW, apparently, had smashed the hilltop into a crater.  The entire squad had been wiped out.

“Nice going,” Michelet said, from where he was lying near her.

“Oh, fuck off,” George said.

Chapter Three

London had changed, Susan noted, as she walked down towards Whitehall.  Many older buildings had been repaired, since the bombardment and flooding in the war, but others had been rebuilt completely.  A cluster of skyscrapers - resembling prefabricated housing rather than anything else - had been built along the Thames, providing living space for the government workers who dominated the centre of London.  Others, she knew, had been erected on the outskirts of the city, re-housing the countless millions who’d been rendered homeless by the bombardment.  They were soulless places, she’d been told, but they were better than the tent cities and refugee camps that had been so common in the years since the war.  Hopefully, the combination of new housing and colonial incentives would be enough to push their residents out of the city.

She sucked in her breath as she entered Trafalgar Square.  Nelson's Column had been knocked down during the bombardment, but it had been hastily rebuilt once the pieces had been located and patched back together again.  Some people claimed that Nelson looked odd now, as if he was scowling at the nation he’d once defended, but Susan couldn’t see any real difference.  The Ark Royal memorial, erected on the other side of the square, was different, drawing her attention like a magnet.  A chunk of the ancient supercarrier’s hull, engraved with the names of all who’d gone down with her; a large statue of Admiral Sir Theodore Smith ... she smiled as she saw the flowers, piled high beneath the statue.  Britain might have almost forgotten Nelson - and far too many others - before the Troubles, but they would never be forgotten now.  Admiral Smith had died to save the entire human race.  

And now we’re fighting beside our old enemies, she thought, wryly.  I wonder what he would have made of that?

A small crowd of people were standing at one side of the square, exchanging shouts and insults with another - much larger - group.  Several dozen policemen were also there, looking grim as the shouting grew louder.  Susan listened, trying to make out the words as they blurred together into cacophony.  One group was against the war, she decided; the other group had decided to mount a counter-protest.  She turned and hurried onwards as more police vans began to arrive, armed policemen heading into the square.  Peaceful protest was part of Britain’s political tradition, one as old as British democracy, but violent protests would be squelched as quickly as possible.  That lesson, too, had been learned in the Troubles.

She put the matter out of her mind as she approached the security barrier at the edge of Whitehall, manned by a pair of armed soldiers.  There would be others in reserve, she knew, and probably more on their way from the nearby barracks, if the protest really did get out of hand.  Whitehall had been bombed twice during the Troubles, then nearly flooded during the First Interstellar War.  A degree of paranoia was only to be expected.  She made sure to keep her hands in view as she approached the checkpoint, silently relieved she hadn't brought her service pistol.  The Household Cavalry would take a very dim view of anyone carrying a weapon into Whitehall, even though she had a legal firearms permit.

The lead guard smiled at her.  “I saw you on the news,” he said.  “You’re Vanguard, aren’t you?”

“I am her commanding officer,” Susan said.  She had to smile at his enthusiasm.  “And yourself?”

“Household Cavalry,” the soldier said.  “We may be deploying to Nova Scotia or Britannia, but nothing’s confirmed yet.”

“It never is,” Susan said.  

She smiled in amusement.  Deploying regiments outside the country - and off-world - was official policy, but certain units were harder to move than others.  The Household Cavalry was unusual in that it was both a genuine fighting force and a ceremonial guard for Whitehall and Buckingham Palace.  She’d be surprised if its soldiers were ever sent off-world.  The plans to build a palace on Britannia had been blown out of the water by the war.

The soldier checked her fingerprints and DNA, then made certain she had an appointment at the Ministry of Defence before giving Susan an e-pass and motioning her through the security gates.  Susan approved, even though she knew there were plenty of officers, government ministers and bureaucrats who thought the rules didn't apply to them.  Britain’s enemies had worked hard to exploit gaps in the country’s security, ruthlessly using blindspots and weakness to slip bombs into position.  No one could be allowed through the defences until their identity had been checked and re-checked.

And even though the Troubles are over, she thought, we can't take chances.

Whitehall looked almost exactly as she recalled, she noted as she strode down towards the Ministry of Defence.  The damaged buildings had been repaired, even though Parliament and the Civil Service could have worked out of their emergency accommodation for years if necessary.  She wasn't sure how she felt about that, really.  On one hand, it was important to make it clear that Britain would return to normal; on the other, the resources used to rebuild Whitehall could have been devoted to housing refugees from all over the country.  But, in the end, the politicians had looked after themselves first.  

She took a moment to pay her respects at the London Cenotaph, silently noting the inscription that stated that it was actually the third cenotaph.  The first had been blown up during the Troubles, a symbolic strike against the British Government; the second had been ruined during the bombardment, almost certainly by accident.  Nothing she’d heard of the Tadpoles suggested they would have targeted the London Cenotaph deliberately.  They certainly wouldn't have understood its importance to humanity.  The list of names - of men and women who had died on active service - seemed longer every year.  She couldn't keep herself from searching out the names of people who’d died in the Battle of UXS-469, people she’d known during her career.  Their bodies had never been recovered.

And probably will never be recovered, she thought, as she turned and strode towards the Ministry of Defence.  The families of men and women who died in space rarely had bodies to bury.  Unless the Foxes recovered them for dissection.

She reached the MOD and walked up the steps, holding up her e-pass for inspection.  The guards checked her DNA again anyway, making sure she was authorised to enter the building.  Susan rather suspected there weren't many spacers - or soldiers or even civil servants - who fitted her description, but she approved of the precaution.  Getting into a military base was difficult, according to countless exercises, yet once someone was inside it was generally assumed that he had a right to be there.  An infiltrator could do a great deal of damage before being caught, if he was inside the wire.

“Thank you,” the guard said, when he’d finished checking.  “Please place your terminal in the lockers, then wait in the lobby.  You’ll be escorted to the briefing room.”

Susan nodded and walked through the gate into the lobby.  It was larger than she’d expected, so luxurious that she half-wondered if she'd walked into an expensive hotel.  The chairs were real leather, the wooden tables shining ... a large painting of a scene from the Napoleonic Wars hung over the fireplace, an echo of a bygone era.  Men on horseback, charging forward ... even when the artist had painted, Susan suspected, the cavalry had already been on the brink of obsolescence.   Charging into the teeth of heavy guns - or machine guns - would have been nothing more than suicide. 

She put her terminal into one of the hidden lockers, then turned as she heard someone step into the lobby.  A young woman, wearing a commander’s uniform.  Susan felt her eyes go wide as she realised the newcomer was a mixed-race child too, almost certainly Caucasian mixed with Asian.  Faintly-tinted skin, dark almond eyes, hair a shade too light to be pureblood Chinese or Japanese ... she couldn't help a flicker of envy, mixed with a dollop of fellow-feeling.  This girl was exotic - and stunning - enough that she would have had almost no trouble in school.

The young woman came to attention.  “Captain Onarina?  I’m Commander Outlander, Admiral Fitzwilliam’s aide.  If you would like to come with me ...?”

“Of course,” Susan said.  

She smiled to herself as she followed the younger woman through a twisting maze of corridors, all lined with expensive paintings.  Judging from the name alone, she would have placed Commander Outlander as an asteroid dweller.  The RockRats weren't known for caring about anything, but competence.  Quite a few Chinese and Japanese engineers had fled to the asteroids when their governments had started clamping down once again.  It was odd to see one in the Royal Navy, but perhaps it wasn't too surprising.  The First Interstellar War had upset a lot of applecarts.

Commander Outlander stopped in front of a large wooden door, then held it open.  Susan walked through the door, shaking her head in disbelief at the sheer opulence of the briefing room.   It was definitely very like an expensive hotel, complete with a sizeable drinks cabinet and a uniformed servant waiting to take orders.  Admiral Fitzwilliam, the First Space Lord, sat at a giant wooden table that looked old enough to predate the Troubles, flanked by Prince Henry and Admiral Soskice.  Three others she didn't know sat beside them, a grim-faced man with dark hair cut close to his scalp, someone who was almost certainly a marine even though he was in civilian clothes and a woman wearing a captain’s uniform and a perpetually vague expression.

“Captain Onarina,” Admiral Fitzwilliam greeted her.  “Welcome to the MOD.”

“Thank you, sir,” Susan said.  

She took the seat he offered her and rested her hands in her lap.  It was hard to escape the sense she was in trouble.  If nothing else, she was almost certainly the lowest-ranked officer in the room.  She'd expected a larger briefing, probably with a number of other commanding officers at once.  Instead ... it looked more like a private discussion.  She couldn't help finding that a little ominous.

“I believe you’ve met Prince Henry and Admiral Soskice,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said.  He indicated the grim-faced man.  “Rear Admiral John Naiser, Brigadier Percy Schneider and Captain Juliet Watson-Stewart.”

Susan sucked in her breath.  Rear Admiral John Naiser had commanded HMS Warspite during the Anglo-Indian War, practically winning the most significant naval engagement of the war single-handedly.  And then he’d gone on to head the design team that had produced Vanguard and her sisters.  Brigadier Percy Schneider had commanded Fort Knight on Vesy, then served with distinction during the war; Captain Juliet Watson-Stewart had designed most of Warspite, then gone on to revolutionise gravimetric technology ... they were legends.  Her mouth was suddenly dry.  The entire Royal Navy looked up to them.

“John’s promotion was only confirmed last month,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said.  “His return to fleet command is long overdue.”

“Thank you, sir,” Naiser said.  Susan had always been good with accents, but she couldn't place his.  She rather suspected that meant a lower-class origin.  “It’s a pleasure.”

Prince Henry cleared his throat.  “Perhaps we could get a move on,” he said.  “Time, tide and outraged family members wait for no man.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said.  There was a hint of droll amusement in his voice.  “Susan, would you like something to drink?  I’m afraid we may be here a while.”

“So feel free to say when you need the facilities,” Prince Henry put in.  He winked at Susan, mischievously.  “This is going to be a long meeting.”

Susan nodded to the servant, then ordered tea.  Admiral Fitzwilliam ordered a tray of biscuits, cakes and sandwiches, then tapped a hidden switch.  A holographic starchart appeared over the table, red, blue and green stars linked together by yellow tramlines.  Susan sucked in her breath as her eyes found the war front, surrounded by tactical icons.  The enemy - the Foxes and Cows - had clearly made new inroads into Tadpole-controlled space.  

Admiral Fitzwilliam leaned forward.  “You can download a full strategic overview from the datanet,” he said.  “However, we do need to go over a number of points.”

He pointed at two of the red stars.  “Despite the success of Operation Unity and a series of follow-up raids, the Foxes have continued to bring pressure against a number of Tadpole systems.  In two cases, they have successfully driven the Tadpole Navy out of the system and reinforced heavily, opening up lines of attack that will take them to Tadpole Prime.  Based on what we now know about the enemy” - he nodded to Prince Henry - “we expect they will concentrate their forces and thrust towards Tadpole Prime.  As yet, of course, we have no idea when they will mount their offensive.”

Susan nodded in grim agreement.  The alien POWs - unlike the Tadpoles, back during the first war - were talking, but they apparently knew little beyond what their superiors felt they needed to know.   It made sense, she’d been told, yet it was frustrating.  There was no way to know what the alien leaders were thinking, ensuring that intelligence’s best analysts were essentially guessing.  They might be right about the alien plan to drive on Tadpole Prime ...

... Or they might be applying human norms to aliens, thus being wrong with confidence.

“Assuming this is correct,” Admiral Fitzwilliam added, “we may expect to see more and more alien forces diverted into jump-off locations for the planned offensive.  That gives us a chance to go on the offensive ourselves, in tandem with our allies.  The ultimate goal will be to punch our way through to the alien homeworld and force them to surrender.”

“At the very least,” Naiser injected thoughtfully, “it will force them to divert their fleets from the original front as we open up a new one.”

“Correct,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said.  “The Tadpoles are, in fact, massing their own forces near Tadpole Prime.  If the enemy weakens, they too will go on the offensive.  We may see a repeat of the Battle of the Marne in space.”

Susan nodded, thoughtfully.  The Battle of the Marne had been studied, extensively, at the Luna Academy, even though it had taken place well before the first cosmonaut had been launched into space.  The Germans, if she recalled correctly, had switched units from the west to the east, ensuring that they’d been caught in transit and unable to assist either front when the tide of battle turned against them.  It was possible, she’d been warned, that something similar could happen in interstellar war.  A scattered fleet might be defeated in detail before it had a chance to re-concentrate.

But the Germans didn't lose the war, not then, she recalled.  They just lost the chance to deliver a knock-out blow to either of their enemies.

“Giving us a chance to crush enemy formations before they have a chance to re-concentrate their forces,” she said, out loud.

“We certainly hope so,” Admiral Fitzwilliam agreed.  He smiled, as if he’d told a joke she hadn't heard.  It made no sense to her.  “What do you think of the concept so far?”

Susan hesitated.  It wasn't as if she was surrounded by superior officers who’d never flown anything more complex than an office desk.  Admiral Fitzwilliam was a war hero ... they were all war heroes.  Even Admiral Soskice had a sterling record for designing new weapons and putting them into play.  There was no way they needed her to tell them the flaws in the plan, the little glitches that would make a theoretical concept utterly unworkable in the real world.  Hell, they'd spoken in such general terms that it was hard to see any problems ...

She looked up at the starchart and saw one.  “The concept seems workable, on the surface,” she said.  “However ...” - she reached out and traced a line on the chart - “they would have ample opportunity to detect our fleet making its way towards their territory and shift units to face us.  Their FTL communications system gives them a very definite unfair advantage.  I don’t think we could sneak a fleet up to their borders without being detected well in advance.”

“We could sneak through the edges of their systems,” Henry mused.  “It isn't as if we haven't taken the long way around before.”

“There would still be a risk of detection,” Susan said.  Admiral Fitzwilliam would know it, of course.  Given interior lines of communication, twinned with a FTL communications system, the enemy could blunt their offensive with ease.  They might still lose, of course, but the costs would be high.  The Royal Navy couldn't afford heavy losses.  “I think ...”

Her voice trailed off as it hit her.  Captain Juliet Watson-Stewart ... she shouldn't be present, not at a strategy meeting.  Unless ... unless ...

“You think we don’t need the tramlines,” she said.  “You think we have a way of getting there without using the tramlines.”

Admiral Fitzwilliam smiled.  “I told you she was smart,” he said to Naiser.  “And she’s right.”

Susan stared at him.  Getting around the tramlines - moving FTL without following the whims of a poorly-understood network of natural forces - was the Holy Grail of modern science.  Billions of pounds had been thrust into programs designed to find ways to avoid the tramlines.  But she’d never thought it possible, not until now.  It had always seemed a pipe dream.

And FTL communications were a pipe dream too, she reminded herself.  We know they’re possible now.

He looked at Susan.  “We think we can get a task force right into the enemy rear,” he said, bluntly.  “And no matter how swiftly they move forces from the front, they're still going to be in deep shit.”

“And if we fail,” Admiral Naiser said, “there’s no way back.  This may well be a suicide mission.”

Susan smiled.  “We lead, sir.”

Chapter Four

Captain Juliet Watson-Stewart took control of the holographic display, removing the starchart and replacing it with a string of equations that made no sense to Susan, followed by a line running between two gravity wells.  

“I’ve been told to keep this simple,” she said.  Susan didn't miss the mixture of wry affection and resignation that flickered across Naiser’s face.  “Unfortunately, that means I’m going to have to simplify.”

She paused for a moment, then went on.  “An object’s mass warps the structure of space - the greater the mass, the greater the warp.  If you imagine space as a flat plastic sheet, the weight of each star leaves indents in the plastic - and, if the object is heavy enough, falls right through, leaving a tear behind.  It’s not a very good analogy, but it’ll do.

“The warping eventually leads to gravity corridors running between sufficiently large centres of mass,” she continued.  “These corridors may actually play a role in holding the universe together - half the world’s scientists think so, while the other half think they’re nothing more than freak occurrences.  Either way, we know that a low-level gravity field can be used to hop a starship along a tramline, while a high-level gravity field can be used to enhance a tramline to the point it becomes passable.”

“Like the Tadpoles did,” Susan said, just to show she was paying attention.  “They opened up new tramlines and used them to attack us.”

“Precisely,” Juliet said.  She nodded to the display.  “Those tramlines, however, were always in existence.  They were merely too weak to carry a starship without assistance.  We - in the course of trying to unwrap the FTL communications system - stumbled across something a little more interesting.  It is possible, it seems, to create a completely new tramline, if only for a few seconds.  One just needs two gravity wells and a great deal of power.”

“A lot of power,” Naiser warned.  “The output of every human battleship in existence would not be enough to produce a tramline.”

“Thankfully, we can generate and store the power required,” Juliet said.  “However, it would be a one-shot device.  Once you reached your destination, you would be unable to return by the same route.”

Susan cocked her head.  “You can't create the tramline permanently?”

“The power requirements rise towards infinity,” Juliet said.  “There are some theories allowing for creating and maintaining feedback loops, suggesting that it is possible to stabilise the tramline, but at the moment we’re limited to a single jump.  The tramline will fade into nothingness the moment you complete the trip.”

“I see,” Susan said.  The Holy Grail ... even being able to bypass the tramlines once would give humanity an excellent chance to catch the aliens by surprise.  But if the operation failed, they’d have to fight their way back to safety, while the aliens threw more and more ships at them.  “And this is how you plan to surprise the enemy?”

“Yes,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said.

He retook control of the display and returned to the starchart.  “The task force - we’re still putting the details together with the diplomats - will proceed to New Finland, then head to UXS-566,” he said.  He tapped a dull red star on the edge of explored space.  “According to our calculations, we should be able to jump from UXS-566 to ES-19 ... here.  That will put the task force a mere four transits from the enemy homeworld, with two possible routes to follow to its destination.  Assuming that the enemy detects your arrival in ES-19, you will still have several weeks before they can divert reinforcements from the front.”

“Which doesn't include whatever they’ve held in reserve to defend their homeworld,” Admiral Soskice warned.  “They may have plenty of forces in reserve.”

Susan nodded.  Earth was hundreds of light years from the war front, but all of the Great Powers maintained sizable forces to defend humanity’s homeworld.  Earth had been attacked once, during the last war.  Never again.  There was no reason to assume the Foxes would have stripped their homeworld bare, just to push the offensive against the Tadpoles.  The task force might encounter something it couldn't handle.

“If you cannot take their homeworld, we expect you to ravage their system and destroy their industrial base,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said.  “But if you can hold their system, if only temporarily, we believe we can use it to force them to surrender.”

“Their natural response to a newcomer is a challenge,” Prince Henry said.  “To establish the pecking order, as it were.  They’ll surrender to us if we convince them they’re beaten.  And then the war will be over.”

“So we have to give them a thrashing,” Susan mused.  “How very much like school.”

Prince Henry’s lips quirked.  “In space and on the ground,” he said, nodding to Brigadier Percy Schneider.  “Assuming we can, the marines will be landed, with orders to dig in and hold.  If they can't destroy our spaceheads quickly, they’ll surrender.”

“It seems there are a lot of assumptions in this,” Brigadier Schneider observed.  Susan had been thinking the same thing.  “Your Highness, just how sure are you that they’ll surrender?”

“Nothing is entirely certain,” Prince Henry said.  “It’s quite possible that we’ve misunderstood what we’ve been told, even after capturing so many alien POWs.  But even if we’re completely wrong, hitting them in the rear will give us a realistic chance of either beating them or forcing them to retreat.  Either way, we will be in an excellent position to end the war on decent terms.”

Admiral Fitzwilliam met Susan’s eyes.  “Your opinion?”

“It sounds reasonable,” Susan said, slowly.  She rather suspected she would need to read through the datafiles before coming to any final conclusion.  “And we have hedged a little, just in case the projections are wrong.  Tearing the heart out of their industry will definitely shorten the war.”

“They will also view it as dishonourable,” Prince Henry said.

“Too bad,” Schneider said.  “Destroying their industrial base is the quickest way to end the war.”

Susan was inclined to agree.  Starships took months to construct, at least.  A battleship like Vanguard required nearly two years, from the moment the keel was laid to the final fitting out and pre-release trials.  Taking out the enemy shipyards would cut off their reinforcements, giving the human forces a window to crush the enemy and invade their home systems before the enemy rebuilt.  And while the Foxes might view it as dishonourable, she found it hard to care.  They’d started the damn war, after all.

“Admiral Naiser will command the task force, assuming we can get everyone else to agree,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said.  “Susan, Vanguard will serve as his flagship.”

“Yes, sir,” Susan said.  The diplomats were going to have fun.  Everyone wanted their officer to hold overall command.  The Americans, the French, the Chinese ... they’d all want to command the task force.  And while Naiser was an experienced officer, he wasn't the only one.  Sorting out the command structure would be tricky.  “It will be a honour.”

“Tell me that afterwards,” Naiser told her.  His lined face shifted into a tired smile.  “You won’t find it easy.”

“Just remember to keep your hands to yourself,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said.  “Susan’s ship is Susan’s.”

“You speak from experience,” Admiral Soskice said.  “Is Captain Pole still not talking to you?”

“We did get married, after she took early retirement,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said.  “And while we did separate, I don’t think that was because she was my flag captain.”

He glanced at Susan.  “Don’t be afraid to tell him to buzz off if he starts interfering in your command decisions,” he added.  “Captain Pole never hesitated to order me to keep my mouth closed.”

Susan winced, inwardly.  A captain was mistress of her ship, with sole responsibility for her fate.  But when that ship played host to an admiral - or even another superior officer - it could lead to all sorts of problems.  On one hand, an admiral had no right to issue orders to the ship’s crew; on the other hand, what officer or crewman would refuse an order from his superior?  She’d heard plenty of horror stories about toadying captains who’d allowed their admirals to believe they were allowed to micromanage their ships, as well as command their task forces.  It wasn't going to be easy.

“I know my place,” Naiser said, deadpan.  “I’ll stay on the flag bridge, if you don't mind.”

“Not at all,” Susan said.  

“Percy” - Fitzwilliam glanced at Brigadier Percy Schneider - “will command the marine element.  Ideally, he’ll command the entire landing force, but we may have to compromise a little.  The Americans and the French both have strong candidates for the role.  Once you get down, Percy, you or the overall commander will have authority to accept surrender - or to offer it, if the operation goes belly-up.”

“It will be an interesting challenge,” Schneider said.

Susan nodded in agreement.  The marines had landed on alien worlds before, back during the war, but this would be different.  This time, the aliens were interested in the land, rather than the sea.  There was enough space in the galaxy for humans and Tadpoles, but was there enough space for humans, Cows and Foxes?  But then, she supposed, the two alien races had managed to work together.  Unity, a world that was supposed to be shared between humans and aliens, had practically failed.  The two settlements might as well be on different planets for all the contact they’d had.

“We will, of course, hash out the final details - as much as possible - over the next couple of weeks,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said.  “Susan, you’ll be returning to Vanguard in five days - ideally, the refit will be completed within a fortnight.  The task force should be assembled a week from then, hopefully.  Unless the diplomats manage to screw the whole thing up ...”

He shrugged.  “John, you’ll be boarding Vanguard at the same time?”

“It would be better to board Vanguard after the refit has been completed,” Naiser said, after a moment.  “Captain Onarina would probably prefer that my staff and I were somewhere else during the refit.  I can stay on Nelson Base until then.”

Susan resisted - barely - the urge to nod in agreement.  Vanguard was far larger than Warspite, but she would still have found it annoying to cope with both the refit and demands from an admiral.  Or, more likely, from his staff.  It spoke well of Naiser, she decided, if he was prepared to accommodate her.  And it probably worked in his favour too.  He’d have more access to his future subordinates on Nelson Base.  

“As you wish,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said.  

He smiled, rather thinly.  “The downside is that you will also be joined by the press,” he added.  “A small selection of reporters will be offered the chance to accompany the task force, under the usual rules.  Try not to insult them.”

Oh, joy, Susan thought.

“I’ll do my best,” Naiser said.  “But really ... as long as they behave themselves, they should be fine.”

“They’ll be joining you after the refit,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said.

He paused, looking from face to face.  “I don't think I need to tell you,” he said, “that this is top secret.  We cannot hide the plans to dispatch another task force, but its ultimate destination is a secret.  Officially, you’ll be heading to Unity to reinforce the guard fleet there.  I don’t want a single hint to leak out from anyone in this room.”

Susan frowned.  “But if other governments know of it,” she asked, “won’t it leak out from them?”

“Only at the very highest levels,” Admiral Fitzwilliam assured her.  “Everyone below them is under the impression that we - that you - will be heading back to Unity.  I don’t want it leaking out until the task force is on the way.”

“Yes, sir,” Susan said.

It was unlikely, she knew, that there were any alien spies on Earth.  The Foxes hadn't had time to convert humans to their cause, then slip them back into the Human Sphere.  Even if they had, they’d stand out like sore thumbs.  But it was quite possible that an alien picket was lurking somewhere near Earth, watching fleet deployments and monitoring radio broadcasts from a safe distance.  They might just pick up on the fleet’s true destination and send a message home.

And it will take us two months to reach UXS-566, she thought.  They’ll have plenty of time to set up a welcoming committee.

“Political considerations, of course,” Admiral Soskice said.  “The government’s majority is slimmer than it might wish.”

“That is true,” Admiral Fitzwilliam confirmed.  “We have to be careful.”

Susan kept her face impassive.  She had a nasty feeling that that discussion was well above her pay grade.

“Losing the fleet would be awkward,” Prince Henry commented, dryly.  “The public will probably be very concerned.  And the media will have no trouble finding a bunch of so-called experts to condemn the plan.”

He sounded bitter.  Susan wasn't surprised.  Prince Henry had been hounded by the media from the very day he was born, his life relentlessly scrutinised and every single one of his decisions called into question.  He’d been tormented so badly that he’d joined the navy under a false name, then withdrawn from the Royal Family and accepted a post on Tadpole Prime, where there were no reporters.  His children had grown up there, not really aware that they were part of the Royal Family.  Hell, from what he’d told her, they weren't even on the Civil List.  

Not that they need it, Susan thought, dryly.  An Ambassador’s salary is quite enough.

“I have no doubt of it,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said.  He rose.  “John, you and I will discuss the finer details this afternoon.  You’ll want time, I assume, to chat with Captain Onarina?”

“Of course,” Naiser said.  He looked at Susan.  “Would you care to join me for dinner tonight at the Royal Horseguards?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Susan said.  She’d heard good things about the Royal Horseguards, although she’d never been.  Apparently, the hotel - inside the security zone - had a first-rate restaurant.  Her father would pretend to sulk if she went, she knew, but she wasn’t really being offered a choice.  “What time?”

Naiser glanced at his watch.  “1700?  I’ll book a table, then let you know.”

“Yes, sir,” Susan said.  A working dinner would be tolerable.  “I’ll meet you outside.”

“And I would like to invite you for coffee after this meeting,” Prince Henry said.  “Although we won’t be going any further than the cafe across the road.”

Susan nodded.  She could murder a cup of coffee.  Besides, she’d been hoping for a chance to chat to the prince and find out just how certain the xenospecialists were about their claims.  If the aliens were truly driven by their own biology ...

But women check out men and men check out women, even though it’s rude to stare and it makes people uncomfortable, she told herself, dryly.  That’s biological.

“Percy, I’ll be speaking with you later,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said.  “Is there any other business?”

“I plan to brief Captain Onarina on the new weapons mix,” Admiral Soskice said.  He arched an eyebrow.  “I trust you will make yourself available?”

“I’m staying in London,” Susan assured him, simply.  She was curious, despite herself.  She hadn't heard of any radical new weapons systems, but the Royal Navy was good at keeping secrets.  “I’ll be available for the next five days before I head back to the ship.”

“Understood,” Admiral Soskice said.  He glanced at Fitzwilliam.  “I believe that’s everything.”

“Then I declare this meeting adjourned,” Admiral Fitzwilliam said.  “As I said, everything we discussed is top secret.  I would be seriously displeased if the BBC were to pick up on it before it’s too late.”

Susan nodded, then followed Juliet out of the room.  She wondered, absently, if Juliet would be accompanying the task force.  The chance to talk to such a genius ... she made a mental note to check as they met Commander Outlander outside.  She followed the younger woman down to the lobby, then recovered her terminal and waited for Prince Henry.  There were seven new messages, six of them concerning Vanguard.  The seventh was from Sandy Devonshire.  Susan hesitated, unsure if she wanted to reopen Pandora’s Box, then clicked on the email.  It was a dinner invitation for the following night.

Dad must have given him my contact code, she thought.  She read the message again, shaking her head.  She’d dated Sandy when they were both seventeen, the year before she’d headed off to the academy.  It hadn't lasted, but ... she wondered, absently, what was going through his mind.  A meeting with an old friend or something else?

But she didn't have any plans, did she?

She considered her options for a long moment.  There wasn't much in London she wanted to see, beyond a handful of old bookshops that had somehow survived the bombardment.  She’d never been a theatre snob, even when the streets had been packed with people going to see the shows.  And she’d had no plans for the following night.  Why not?

Susan keyed in a message, accepting the invitation, then looked up as Prince Henry appeared.  He’d donned a heavy coat and a hat that hid his features, just enough to protect him from any marauding reporters.  Susan doubted there would be many of them inside the security zone, but she didn't blame Henry for being paranoid.  Reporters had come very close to ruining his life.

He gave her a tired smile.  “Shall we go?”

“Why not?”  Susan asked.  Life on Earth - in London - couldn't be easy for a man who’d spent the last decade on Tadpole Prime.  Cold, muggy, expensive and crowded ... Earth looked like hell.  “It’s just across the road.”

Chapter Five

George had decided, long ago, that some complete bastard had decided that communal showers had to be as embarrassing as possible.  Showers at Hanover Towers, thankfully, were single-sex; showers in the Royal Navy’s Luna Academy put men and women together, relying on them to be professional when faced with temptation.  But she had to admit it had prepared her for showering with the marines.  She didn't feel particularly self-conscious as she washed herself, rivers of brown water and mud splashing down and vanishing into the pipes.  It wouldn't leave her feeling clean, she knew from grim experience, but it was better than nothing.

They’re preparing for the trials and tribulations of going on campaign, she thought, careful to avert her eyes as she stepped out of the shower.  And readying them for the deprivations they will have to face.

She smiled at the thought.  Her uncle had told her, back when she’d been a child, that there was no technological reason for the water restrictions onboard a large starship.  Recycling the water wasn't hard - and besides, there was no shortage of comets that could be mined for water-ice if the ship was running short.  But it allowed the Royal Navy to offer increased water rations as a reward for promotion, or even for good work.  It was basic manipulation and it worked very well.

A dozen marines were dressing outside the shower, either preparing for the next exercise or heading straight to the barracks to catch up with their sleep.  They paid no attention to her as she dressed, even though she looked more feminine than she had in weeks.  She wasn't sure if they were being polite, if it was a quiet admittance she’d earned her place or if they were merely too tired to care.  Some of the stories she’d read, while preparing to join the marines on exercise, had suggested that the sergeants put something in the water to dim the libido.  Others insisted that the men were simply too tired to care.  But then, there was a small town only a five-mile walk from the base.  She would have been astonished if there wasn't a brothel somewhere down there.  

She dressed hastily, then glanced at herself in the mirror.  The green uniform made her look thin - she’d lost a lot of weight over the last month - while her face looked oddly skeletal, almost inhuman. Her black hair, cut close to her scalp, looked thin, as if she was on the verge of losing it.  She could easily have passed for a teenage boy, if she’d wished.  Shaking her head, she walked out the door.  She should have time to get some sleep before the next series of exercises began.

And hopefully avoid the rest of the squad, she thought.  No one had been remotely happy at how they’d been taken out, even though it hadn't really been George’s fault.  To be killed by their own side was embarrassing.  They won’t wake me up just to yell at me some more.

A young man wearing a lieutenant’s uniform was waiting for her.  “Complements of the CO, Ms Fitzwilliam,” he said.  “You’re to report to him at once.”

George tried hard not to groan.  She was tired and sore ... she needed food and sleep, perhaps not in that order.  And the bloody exercises were due to continue for another fortnight ... it was just like being on deployment, complete with bad food, worse sleeping quarters and the prospect of getting killed.  But she knew better than to ignore the order.  The base CO would be pissed.  All her chances of promotion would vanish like a snowflake in hell.

“Thank you, sir,” she managed.  The young man looked depressingly fresh for someone who was supposed to be on deployment - or at least pretending to be on deployment.  She felt a surge of hatred that was shocking in its intensity, a desire to just kick him in the nuts and swear blind it was an accident.  “I’m on my way.”

She scooped up a bottle of water as she made her way down to the doors and out into the open air.  Night was slowly falling across the Brecon Beacons, the sun vanishing behind the mountains that had tormented her for the last month.  There were soldiers out there on SAS Selection, she knew, trying to make their way across the exercise ground before night fell completely.  She’d had enough problems, merely working on the liaison course, to know she didn't have a hope of passing Selection, even if she’d been allowed to apply.  The SAS, too, was an all-male unit.

Dering Lines Army Base looked oddly shabby, for one of the most important infantry training grounds in the United Kingdom.  There was no escaping the sense of age around some of the barracks, even the ones that had been hastily erected to cope with the influx of new recruits - and conscripts - during the First Interstellar War.  A dozen armed guards were clearly visible, marching to and fro; others, she knew, would be patrolling the fence or manning the guardpost at the gates.  There had been a time when soldiers had gone unarmed on post, but that had changed after a series of terrorist attacks during the Troubles.  Now, the guards had live weapons and the authority to use them if they believed they were under attack.  It had come in handy during the Bombardment and its aftermath.

A flag fluttered in the breeze outside the main building, a stone construction that reminded her of Hanover Towers.  The guards checked her ID, then pointed her towards the CO’s office.  She couldn't help noticing that the guards too looked remarkably neat and tidy for men who were supposed to be on deployment, one of them daring to throw her a ‘come hither’ grin that she ignored completely.  But then, making a good impression was important too.  The QRF on permanent standby in the nearby barracks probably looked a great deal nastier.

Looking good is not as important as being good, she thought.  Her uncle and father had used to say that, causing no end of fights with George’s mother.  And if mother saw me now, she’d faint.

She sighed as she entered the outer office and announced herself to the CO’s secretary.  Her mother was a wonderful person, but there were times when George wondered what century her mother thought she was living in.  She’d obsessed over George’s coming-out ball, she’d insisted that George wore the finest clothes ... even to the point of ordering her daughter to wear a wig, just to hide her short hair.  It wasn't as if George was interested in winning a good husband, certainly not from the ranks of the aristocracy.  All the interesting aristocrats had joined the army or the navy.

“You may enter,” the secretary said.

George nodded and stepped into the CO’s office.  As always, there was a faint hint of impermanence about it, even though she rather suspected that very little had changed for the last fifty years.  The table and chairs were designed to be broken down and transported from place to place, the filing cabinets sat on coasters that would make it easy for two men to move them down the corridor ... the only thing that had changed, she thought, was the ‘I Love Me’ display on the rear wall.  A dozen medals and commendations, all addressed to the CO; a set of photographs, some clearly from alien worlds ...

Lieutenant-General Ball cleared his throat.  George jumped, then hastily straightened to attention.  She was worse off than she’d thought, she realised numbly.  If she fell asleep on her feet, in front of the CO ... she wasn't sure if that was a court-martial offense or not, but she was fairly sure it would earn her an unprecedented number of push-ups.  The sergeants would have to invent some new numbers, just so they could give her them to do.

“Midshipwoman,” the CO said.  “I trust you have been enjoying yourself?”

George nodded, not daring to speak.  Lieutenant-General Ball was an experienced combat soldier, someone who’d been in the army longer than she’d been alive.  The army wouldn't have assigned him to the base if they hadn't felt he knew what was actually important - and what was nonsense dreamed up by some REMF in Whitehall.  She couldn't help wondering if he classed her as a piece of nonsense dreamed up by an idiot.  The training had been interesting - and even fun, afterwards - but she was starkly aware that she didn't even begin to match the Royal Marines.  

“Glad to hear it,” Ball told her.  “You’ll be pleased to hear that your orders have come down from London.”

“Yes, sir,” George said.  

She wasn't sure, in truth, if that was actually good news.  Hell, she wasn't even sure why she'd been given the training in the first place.  Her uncle hadn't been very clear when he’d offered her the chance to study under the Royal Marines.  Some of the marines had offered suggestions, ranging from the reasonable to the ribald, but none of them had quite made sense.  If she’d wanted to join one of the handful of combat units women could join, she would have done it back when she’d turned sixteen, instead of joining the navy.

But I might have had to wait until I turned eighteen, she thought.  The army might not be so willing to take me when I was sixteen.

“You’re going to be reassigned to Vanguard as a liaison officer,” Ball said.  He gave her a droll smile.  “I’m afraid this doesn't come with a promotion.”

George blinked in surprise.  A liaison officer?  They’d had her running all over the Brecon Beacons just to make her a liaison officer?  She’d been a liaison officer ... well, she’d worked with the Royal Marines.  She certainly wouldn't forget the hellish landing on Unity and the trek across the planetary surface in a hurry.  If she’d known half as much as she did now back then ...

She pushed the thought aside.  Perhaps someone had decided she needed to train with the marines to be a good liaison officer.  Or perhaps someone had something else in mind for her ... she wouldn't know, she suspected, until the end of the next deployment.  If she was going back to Vanguard ... she had to smile.  She would neither be First Middy nor a newcomer to the ship and her crew.  Perhaps this time she would have a peaceful deployment.

There’s a war on, idiot, she reminded herself.  And you’re going to be serving on a battleship.

Ball snorted.  George dragged her attention back to him in a hurry.

“The good news is that you have four days of shore leave before you are required to catch a shuttle from London,” Ball informed her.  “I have been ordered to release you from my command and arrange transport to Cardiff, where you will be able to catch a train to your final destination.  Your military card will take you anywhere within Britain.”

George thought fast.  It would take at least an hour to reach Cardiff, by which point the trains might have stopped running for the night.  Coming to think of it, she had no idea just what the train service was like in Cardiff.  The city had been devastated during the Bombardment and while she knew there had been a great deal of reclamation work, she’d heard that most of the survivors had chosen not to return.  But the CO wouldn't plan to send her to the city if he hadn't thought she could make her own way from there.

I could hire a taxi for the drive to London, she thought.  Or find a place to stay in Cardiff.

“Thank you, sir,” George said.  She made a mental note to check her terminal as soon as she left the base.  Perhaps she could call a taxi from the nearest town, saving the military driver a long trip.  And then she could make arrangements for a hotel in London.  “Sir ...”

She swallowed, hard.  In truth, she wasn't sure she wanted to know.  But her uncle had taught her the importance of facing up to the truth, whatever it was.  

“Sir,” she said.  “How ... how well did I do?”

Lieutenant-General Ball studied her for a long moment, his scrutiny reminding her of Mrs Blackthorn’s expression after George had been accused - correctly - of playing a nasty prank on some of the younger girls.  The headmistress had come very close to expelling her - and would have done, George suspected, if she hadn't had such strong family connections.  She’d made George feel about an inch high.  

And the lecture I got from my father only made it worse, she recalled.  I was lucky not to be grounded forever.

“For someone who entered the training course with little practical experience in the skills taught to all soldiers, you did reasonably well,” Lieutenant-General Ball told her.  “Your shooting and unarmed combat skills were pitiful, but you learned quickly.  Whatever basic training you did have wasn't bad, merely incomplete.  Your academy training also prepared you for working closely with men - despite temptation, you made no attempt to take advantage of your sex.”

George flushed.  She'd been told, in no uncertain terms, that she would be treated as one of the boys - and that she was to act as one of the boys.  Trying to use her feminine wiles - as if she’d had any, after tramping up and down the Brecon Beacons for hours - to get the marines to help her would get her kicked from the course and probably dishonourably discharged from the navy.  She hadn't been inclined to argue.  The Royal Navy had drilled strict rules on interpersonal relationships into her head from the day she’d first entered the academy.

“On the other hand,” Ball continued, “you lack the endurance required of combat soldiers and, despite your best efforts, that is unlikely to change.  You really came to us too late.”

He met her eyes, evenly.  “If you’d joined us in the normal way, you would probably have been binned by now,” he added.  “You’re not lacking in determination and moral fibre, but you’re physically incapable of meeting our high standards.  You simply cannot carry as much as your fellows.  A long march over the Brecon Beacons would probably kill you - or force your squadmates to decide between carrying you or leaving you behind.  Either one might have proved costly.”

“The spirit is willing,” George mused, “but the flesh is weak.”

“Correct,” Ball said.  “And as you know from experience, you don’t get to shout stop in a combat zone.”

He rose.  “It’s been interesting, having you here,” he said.  “And I wish you all the best in your future career.”

“Thank you, sir,” George said.

She saluted, then marched out of the office.  The general’s secretary might be a sour-faced prune - the administrative staff were treated as second-class citizens, as far as the army was concerned - but she was efficient.  George’s travel papers were already waiting for her, along with a brief outline of options for reaching London, Manchester, Edinburgh and Aberdeen.  It looked as though there were late-night trains from Cardiff after all.  Still, hiring a taxi would probably be quicker in the long run.  She had the feeling she’d spend most of the trip snoring loudly.

“Collect your possessions from the exit barracks and change into civilian clothes, then report to the gatehouse,” the secretary ordered, stiffly.  “The jeep will be waiting for you there.”

“Thank you,” George said.

She walked to the barracks and recovered her bag from the staff.  She’d been told to bring two sets of civilian clothes, as well as a handful of basic supplies, but most of them had been put into storage as soon as she’d reported to the base.  Her terminal was sitting on top of her clothes; she clicked it on, watching as it linked into the datanet.  Personal terminals were banned on the base, along with wristcoms and earphones.  She’d never really understood the logic.  

It felt odd, after wearing uniforms for nearly two months, to change back into her civilian clothes.  The army clothes had been ill-fitting - she’d had to struggle to get bras that actually fitted her, not something she’d had to worry about in the navy - but they’d also made her feel part of something bigger, as if she actually fitted in.  But now ... she looked at herself in the mirror and sighed.  Jeans, a shirt and a jumper ... she looked like any other young civilian, perhaps one searching for her first job after completing her National Service.  Shaking her head, she keyed a quick message into her terminal and headed for the gatehouse.  If she was lucky, she’d be halfway to London by midnight.

And maybe Peter will be free, she thought.  She’d exchanged a handful of messages with her boyfriend, but there’d been no privacy when she’d been using the public computers.  Sexting had been completely out of the question.  We could meet in London.

George shrugged as she reached the gatehouse.  The guards processed her with commendable speed, checking her ID before altering it to make sure she couldn't swipe in and out of the base any longer.  She couldn’t help feeling oddly rejected, even though she knew it was absurd.  No one was allowed to pass through the gates without clear authorisation from their superiors.

The army driver waved to her, cheerfully.  “Where to, Miss?”

“The nearest town,” George said, as she keyed her terminal.  If there was a taxi firm there ... if not, she’d just have to go to Cardiff.  “And don’t spare the horses.”

“Of course, Miss,” the driver said.  Of course he would be flirting.  She no longer looked like one of the boys.  “We’ll be there before you know it.”

Chapter Six

“Susan,” a voice called.  “You look very different!”

Susan turned.  That had been Sandy’s voice, hadn't it?  But for a moment, as she scanned the crowd, she didn't see him.  And then she realised that the middle-aged man in front of her was Sandy.  He’d changed.  The gawky teenager she remembered had been replaced by a grown man wearing a black suit and tie, carrying a black briefcase in one hand.  He looked muscular, like most young men who’d done two years of National Service, but it was clear that he was starting to put on weight.  His brown hair was already starting to thin.

“Sandy,” she said.  “You look different too.”

“Age comes to us all,” Sandy said.  He winked.  “That and I can’t afford expensive cosmetic treatments to regain my lost youth.”

He looked her up and down.  “You look better than I do,” he added.  “But that was always true.”

Susan shrugged.  As a teenager, she’d agonised for hours over what she should wear; as an adult, she’d pulled her one dress over her head and splashed a little make-up on her face.  She had never been particularly vain as a child - and the navy had killed whatever tendency she’d had towards vanity as a cadet.  Coming to think of it, so had boarding school.  The one advantage of uniforms that came from a bygone age was that the richer kids weren't constantly flaunting their designer clothes in front of their poorer peers.  And to think she’d hated the uniform at the time.

Sandy took her arm and led her down the street.  “I was thinking we’d dine at the Raj,” he said.  “It’s quite a good place to go, if you don’t mind Indian food.”

“I have no objections,” Susan said.  A lot of ethnic restaurants had been closed during the Troubles, but they’d had a revival recently.  The Anglo-Indian War hadn’t slowed it down, as far as she knew.  She wasn't going to be accused of being unpatriotic merely for eating in an Indian restaurant.  “Do you think we can find a table?”

“I called ahead,” Sandy said.  “They don’t do reservations, but they often have empty tables while the crowds are at the theatre.  It’s a pain after they come out and start looking for somewhere to eat.”

The Raj turned out to be a mid-sized restaurant staffed by young women wearing traditional Hindu clothes.  They seemed surprised to see Susan, although Susan couldn't tell if they recognised her or if they were merely surprised to see an interracial couple.  It was rare, something she regretted more than she cared to admit.  The girls themselves were either the descendants of immigrants who’d assimilated or workers on a short-term work permit.  She had to admit they were pretty enough to make her feel dowdy.

“It’s traditional to order two or three dishes, then share,” Sandy said, as Susan scanned the menu.  “What would you like?”

Susan shrugged.  There didn't seem to be anything particularly spicy on the menu, as far as she could tell.  But then, she’d grown up eating her father’s cooking - and he’d regarded chilli as a vital part of everything.  Sandy ordered a couple of starters, then waited.  Susan picked a couple of dishes largely at random, handing the menu back to the waitress.  The food was important, but she was rather more interested in catching up with an old friend.

“So,” she said.  “What have you been doing since we last met?”

Sandy shrugged.  “Two years of National Service, then a third year as a volunteer,” he said, frankly.  “The Reclamation Zones ... they were a nightmare.”

Susan leaned forward.  “I’ve seen pictures,” she said.  “Was it really that bad?”

“Worse,” Sandy said.  “The tidal waves battered the west coast savagely, sending water ravaging east.  Millions of people were killed, hundreds of thousands rendered homeless ... we were pulling bodies out of the ruins every day.  God alone knows who those people were, Susan.  We never had time to do anything, but dump the bodies in a mass grave and cover them with earth.”

Susan winced.  It had become customary to assume, if someone had vanished during the Bombardment, that they were dead and gone, their body washed out to sea or dumped in a mass grave.  Or eaten by wild animals.  She’d heard stories of nature reclaiming entire towns, once the surviving population had been relocated.  It would be decades, perhaps, before the mess was cleared up.

“And then we were struggling to clear up the mess,” he added.  “It was a real nightmare.”

“It would have been worse if they’d won,” Susan said.

“Probably,” Sandy agreed.

Susan nodded as the starters arrived.  “What are you doing now?”

“I went into business, working to reclaim the devastated lands,” Sandy said.  He gestured at his suit.  “It pays ... well enough for me to get this suit and tie.”

“Very little, then,” Susan said.  “Or does that suit come from Savile Row?”

“I’ll have you know it cost a couple of thousand pounds,” Sandy said, in mock offence.  He speared a piece of chicken with his fork.  “There’s quite a bit of money in reclaiming the lost towns and cities, Susan.  You just have to know how to find it.”

Susan lifted her eyebrows.  “And where do you find it?”

“Depends,” Sandy said.  He nibbled his chicken for a long moment.  “There’s a lot of debate over how it should be reclaimed.  We got the contract to rebuild a couple of seaside towns, after sifting through them for anything useful - or anything we can return to its owner.  And we’ve been working on rebuilding some of the roads the army engineers didn't touch, back in the early days.  That’s hard going, let me tell you.”

“You’re doing well for yourself,” Susan said.

“I saw an opportunity and took it,” Sandy said.  He smiled.  “I went to work for the company after I was released from service, then clawed my way to the middle.  You’re talking to a regional director.”

Susan cocked her head.  “And you never married?”

“I was waiting for you,” Sandy announced, deadpan.

“I’ll have you know that I read engineering reports from men who think I’ll be impressed if they constantly overestimate the time needed to repair the engines,” Susan said.  She jabbed a finger at him.  “I know bullshit when I hear it.”

Sandy shrugged.  “I was in a couple of relationships,” he said.  “They never worked out.  One woman dumped me for a wealthier man; I dumped the other when it became clear she was a gold-digger.  You?”

“I’ve been too busy,” Susan said.  “Commanding a battleship leaves no time for romance.”

“So it’s not like Stellar Star,” Sandy said.

“No,” Susan said.  She made a show of rolling her eyes.  “If I did half the things she did, I’d be dishonourably discharged as soon as the court-martial board finished laughing.  There’s nothing realistic in that show, particularly not her chest size.”

“No one watches it for realism,” Sandy pointed out.  “They watch it for beautiful women and strapping men.”

Susan nodded.  The Royal Navy had never been sure what to make of Stellar Star.  She’d been on ships where the captain had quietly turned a blind eye to porn caches on the datanet, but exploded with rage at the mere thought of his midshipmen watching the latest season of Stellar Star And the Magnificent Weapon.  On one hand, it did encourage youngsters to join the navy; on the other hand, it was so unrealistic that those youngsters were bound to be disappointed, once someone filled them in on the facts of life.  She would have preferred them to be watching the shows the navy produced itself, but many youngsters found them boring.  Realism needed to take a second place to entertainment.

She chewed the kebab thoughtfully, watching - with some amusement - as Sandy washed his down with cold water.  The meat was spicy, but nowhere near as spicy as some of her father’s more interesting dishes.  She swallowed it, then tasted the chicken.  It was more flavourful, but - again - it wasn't particularly spicy.  Sandy seemed to feel otherwise.

“My company is looking for more personnel with military connections,” Sandy said, as the waitress brought the main course and placed it on the table.  “Would you be interested?”

Susan lifted an eyebrow.  “Is this a recruitment dinner?”

“No,” Sandy said, hastily.  “But I would be remiss if I failed to bring the prospective opportunities to your attention.”

“I think you need people with army connections,” Susan mused.  The military still controlled two-thirds of the reclamation zones.  They made excellent training grounds for the young conscripts, as well as allowing them to help with the clean-up on the cheap.  “I’m a naval officer.”

“It would be fine,” Sandy said.  “Eastern Command likes people who speak the military lingo.  Three years of National Service isn't enough.”

Susan nodded, unsurprised.  Every young man in Britain was supposed to serve his country for two years, yet National Service was considered the least of the service branches.  Sandy might - technically - have been in the army, but the army probably didn't feel that way.  A conscript, no matter how well he’d served, wouldn’t be considered the equal of a volunteer, not socially.  Sandy might have volunteered to serve for a third year, but he still wasn't considered a military man.

“The navy’s my life,” she said, finally.  “I don’t want to take early retirement.”

“You might have to,” Sandy pointed out.  “What sort of prospects do you have, long term?”

Susan scowled.  The blunt truth was that she had very few prospects - and she knew it.  She had been unlikely to rise above captain even before relieving her former superior of command.  Too many competitors, too few slots.  Her family didn't have the connections to smooth her path to commodore, let alone the admiralty.  She'd been lucky enough to be allowed to retain command of Vanguard.

And I won’t be allowed to keep her for the rest of my career, she thought.  It wasn't something she wanted to admit, but it couldn't be helped.  I’ll either be promoted or pushed sideways.

“I may never rise higher in the ranks,” she said.  “But that’s not the point.”

She sighed, wondering how she could explain it to a civilian.  “Being in command of a starship is very different from anything else,” she said.  “I ... I am solely responsible for a giant battleship.  There’s nothing you do that compares with it.  You go into the office and work nine till five; I’m on duty all the time, even when I’m sleeping.  I ...”

“It sounds wonderful,” Sandy said, sardonically.

“It is,” Susan said.  “I will eventually be pushed out of the command chair, I know.  The Royal Navy dislikes leaving officers in command for more than a couple of years.  But until then ... she’s mine.” 

She took a piece of naan bread and used it to wrap up the curry, chewing it slowly.  It tasted different - better than the curries she’d eaten at her primary school - although it still wasn't particularly spicy.  She was tempted to order the hottest thing on the menu, just to see what it was like, but decided it would be a waste of money.  If she wanted something so hot that even she found it a challenge, she could just steal a precooked meal from her father’s freezer and splash some of his homemade sauce on it.

“I did have another reason to ask you out,” Sandy said, after they’d eaten their way through most of the main course.  “There’s some ... uneasy questions rumbling through the corporate world.”

Susan frowned.  “I don’t think I’ll be able to answer them.”

“There’s the very real prospect of budget cuts,” Sandy said.  “Do you think that’s likely?”

“I wouldn't know,” Susan said.  “I only know what I’ve read on the datanet.”

She’d read a dozen political updates over the last couple of days, after Admiral Fitzwilliam’s odd remarks, but the conclusions had been so widely varied that she’d found them completely useless.  One analyst had insisted that the government’s majority would remain strong, while two others had argued the exact opposite.  Most of them had agreed that some things were going to change, but disagreed on what would.  In the end, she’d done her best to put it out of her mind.

“But you’re a serving officer,” Sandy said.  “Do you have any insights on the war?”

Susan kept her face expressionless.  “I believe we will win,” she said.  “There’s one alien empire facing both us and the Tadpoles.  Their tech advantages are a problem, but we have faced that issue before and overcome it.”

“Ah,” Sandy said.  “The official line.”

“I have no reason to doubt it,” Susan said, dryly.  “The deceit regularly practiced by corporate hacks is largely absent from the navy.”

“Idealist,” Sandy charged, mischievously.  He shrugged.  “Jokes aside, it’s rare for a corporate hack to lie.  They just do their best to spin facts in their favour.  I’ve fired people for spinning things so much that the essential truth is lost.”

“How honest,” Susan said.

“It’s a matter of perception,” Sandy said.  “If we are seen as financially weak, our competitors will try to push us into situations that will tip us over the edge.  It's in our interest to look strong, even if we’re not.  It helps keep us stable long enough to recover, as long as we’re smart enough not to lie to ourselves.”

Susan smiled.  “Are you weak?”

“Not at the moment,” Sandy said.  “But if the government’s budget is cut, for whatever reason, the knock-on effects might hurt us.  So yes, we’re trying to determine what might happen before it does.”

“I think you’d be better off reading tea leaves,” Susan told him.  “The reports I read disagreed on almost everything.”

“It would be cheaper too,” Sandy agreed.  He met her eyes.  “Have you seen the protesters?”

“Yes,” Susan said.

“There’s a growing groundswell of discontent,” Sandy said.  “People thinking we should be investing more in Britain, rather than Britannia and the Royal Navy.  Sending our ships millions of light years to fight a foe who poses no direct threat to us ... they see it as a waste of resources.”

“Better to fight over there than over here,” Susan pointed out.  “I was there when the Contact Fleet got jumped.  The Foxes attacked without provocation.”

She looked back at him.  “Do you believe it’s a waste?  That we shouldn't be fighting the war?”

Sandy shrugged as he called for the bill.  “From a strictly pragmatic point of view, Susan, we signed a treaty with the Tadpoles and we have to uphold that treaty.  Doing otherwise will cause them to question our willingness to uphold other treaties.  At best, they’ll be disinclined to work with us in future; at worst, they may regard us as a prospective threat - again - and take steps to crush us.  And, as you said, better to fight in their space than ours.

“From another point of view, we are wasting billions of pounds on fighting a war that could be better spent elsewhere,” he added.  “I could point to a dozen places in Britain that could use the investment.  Hell, building more colony ships and freighters would be useful too, I think.  From that point of view, the protesters have a point.  The Tadpoles and our new enemies are distant.  Our other problems” - he waved a hand around the room - “are in our face.”

He paid, politely declining Susan’s attempt to pay half, then rose and led her out onto the streets.  Night had fallen; crowds of men and women were emerging from theatres and heading into the nearest restaurants.  Susan followed him down towards Charing Cross, picking her way through the crowds.  A line of policemen were positioned near Trafalgar Square, looking grim.  The protesters, beyond them, were being confronted by a far larger crowd of angry civilians.

“Better to stay away,” Sandy said, as they slipped up a side street.  A number of policemen hurried past them, heading onwards to Trafalgar Square.  “There’s going to be trouble soon, unless I am very much mistaken.”

“Probably,” Susan agreed.  There was a nasty feeling in the air, an ominous sense that violence was on the verge of breaking out.  She hadn't felt anything like it since the last football match she’d attended, when the Royal Marines had played the Grenadier Guards on Britannia.  Thankfully, the sergeants had put a break on the post-game shouting match before it had turned into actual violence.  “We don’t want to be arrested when the police squash the riot.”

She followed him through a couple more streets until they stopped in front of a hotel, an old building that dated back over three hundred years.  The doorman saluted, opening the doors for them.  Sandy led her into the lobby, then stopped.  Susan shook her head as she took in the golden statues and the animal heads mounted on the walls, silently recalculating her estimate of his earnings.  The building was almost as luxurious as the MOD.  It wouldn't open its doors to anyone who earned less than a hundred thousand a year.

“I’m staying here for the moment,” Sandy said.  His voice was suddenly serious.  “Would you like to come up for a nightcap?”

Susan considered it, just for a moment.  She knew what he had in mind and it didn't involve drinking.  It had been a long time - a very long time - since she’d slept with anyone, let alone woken up in someone else’s bed.  Her body was suddenly intent on reminding her just how long it had been.  It would be just a fling, she knew, something to enjoy before she went back to space ...

“Of course,” she said.  She reached out and took his arm.  “I’d like that.”

Chapter Seven

The bathtub, George decided, was large enough to float a small boat.

It was a bit of an exaggeration, she told herself as she lay back in the warm water, but the tub was definitely large enough for an orgy.  Judging by some of the waterproof paintings on the wall, it had been used for an orgy.  A dozen adults could have fitted comfortably in the tub, either relaxing in the hot water or enjoying themselves in other ways.  She closed her eyes for a long moment, feeling the warmth slowly soaking into her body.  Spending some of her trust fund on the Royal Hotel, the most expensive hotel in London, wasn't something she would normally do, but after training with the marines ...

The terminal bleeped, once.  She didn't even have to open her eyes or get out of the tub to answer.  “Go ahead.”

“A Mr. Peter Barton has arrived,” a doubtful voice said.  The receptionist had fawned over George as soon as she’d run her ID through the system, but Peter Barton probably looked a little more questionable to her eye.  He’d be in hock for years if he tried to stay at the Royal Hotel.  “Should we escort him up?”

Or call the police, George added, silently.  The Royal Hotel had its own security staff, ready and able to throw out the riffraff.  They’d be happy to hold an intruder until the police arrived.

“Please,” she said, instead.  “Buzz him into my suite when you arrive.”

She kept her eyes closed until she heard the outer door opening, then opened her eyes and leaned forward.  The escort - a man, judging by the voice - pointed Barton towards the bathroom door, then closed the outer door a little louder than strictly necessary.  George concealed her amusement with an effort.  Barton had either forgotten to tip or given an insufficient amount.

“Come on in,” she called.

Barton opened the door and stared.  “That’s a swimming pool!”

“Close enough,” George agreed.  She wondered, suddenly, if she’d gone a little too far.  He couldn't even begin to pay for the suite.  “Get undressed and get into the water.”

She smiled as she watched him take off his clothes.  Barton probably wouldn't win any awards, but there was a rough edge to him that appealed to her, even though she knew her mother and sister would be horrified.  It was a shame, almost, that she couldn't bring him as her guest to a family event, but the family would be shocked and he’d feel completely out of place.  The romantic in her wondered about running off with him, somewhere; the practical in her pointed out that they’d never be able to stay together, but they might as well have fun until their final, inevitable, separation.

“You look different,” Barton said, as he climbed into the bath.  “Are you all right?”

“Thinner and stronger,” George said.  She wasn’t about to admit that she’d ordered a large meal as soon as she’d arrived and eaten so much she’d nearly been sick.  “The marines made me work for a living.”

“I hope they’re giving you hazard pay,” Barton said.  He swam over to her and kissed her, wrapping his strong arms around her upper body.  “You’re really quite thin.”

“I don’t think they know which department is meant to be paying me,” George said.  “I might have to do battle with the bureaucrats just to get my pay.”

“Take a few of your new friends along,” Barton advised, as he ran his hands up and down her body.  “They can intimidate the beancounters into giving you what you earned.”

George had to smile.  “You managed to get down to London without trouble?”

“I was in London,” Barton said.  He smiled back at her, then pulled her closer.  “Do you want to hear the news or make love?”

“Make love,” George decided.  It had been over two months since they’d last met, let alone had a private room.  “You can tell me afterwards.”

It was nearly two hours before they removed themselves from the bath, had a quick shower to wash away the traces of their lovemaking and ordered food from the kitchens.  George felt almost human again, the pleasant glow of sex warming the parts of her the water hadn't been able to reach.  Maybe their relationship wouldn't last - she knew it wouldn't last.  She could still enjoy it for the time being.

“I don’t believe the prices here,” Barton said.  He sat on the bed, gloriously naked.  “How can anyone justify spending over two hundred pounds on a whole lobster?  Or a chicken pie?”

“The people who come here are so wealthy they think nothing of it,” George said.  She’d never stayed at the Royal Hotel before, but she’d heard stories.  Some of them had probably not been meant for her ears.  “There are places where the total dinner bill is well over a thousand pounds.”

“It's insane,” Barton said.

George shrugged as she heard a knock on the door, then tapped the switch to unlock it.  The maid didn't seem surprised by their nakedness.  She merely placed the tray of food on the wooden table, took the tip George held out to her and then retreated, as silently as she’d come.  Barton looked embarrassed when George turned back to him, even though he’d served in the navy long enough to be used to sharing the facilities.  Perhaps it was different if one wasn't on a warship.

“That girl’s skirt was so short I could see her bum,” Barton said.  He sounded astonished.  “I ... how does she walk around in it?”

“I could wear something like it,” George offered, wickedly.  “Would you like that?”

Barton flushed.  “I’m afraid to cough in this place,” he said.  “I might break something.”

“Don’t worry about it,” George said.  She’d heard that the maids could be induced into guest bedrooms, if offered a sizeable tip.  One of her distant relatives had been braying about it at a party she’d attended, although she hadn't understood most of the details at the time.  “They’ll have everything insured so completely that they can be replaced within the day.”

She passed him his plate, then settled down to eat.  “Why were you in London?”

“I was taking the mustang exams,” Barton said.  He held up his hand in salute.  “You’re looking at the latest officer-cadet!”

George grinned.  “I thought you weren't interested!”

“I saw the light,” Barton said.  “Apparently someone told the chief that I was officer material, so I was put in for the exam.  I spent the last month studying for it” - he paused, dramatically - “and yesterday I was told I’d passed!”

“Well done,” George said.  She was genuinely happy for him.  “You should have told me.”

“I wanted to surprise you, if I passed,” Barton said.  “And I wasn't sure what would happen if I failed.”

George forced herself to remember.  Mustangs - crewmen who became officers - were given a two-year course at the academy, rather than the four years she’d endured.  The mustangs already knew the fundamentals of life in space.  She wasn't sure what would happen to him after he was commissioned, assuming he passed his final exams.  It was hard to imagine a mustang going into Middy Country.  

Although it would have been very useful, she thought, seriously.  She hadn't enjoyed her stint as the New Meat or as the First Middy.  Someone who knew they had nothing to prove.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” she said.  She sobered as a thought struck her.  “You’re not going to be heading back to Vanguard, are you?”

“No,” Barton said.  “I have orders to report to the academy in three days.”

George felt an odd twist in her chest.  Of course Barton wouldn't be going back to Vanguard - and even if he did, they couldn't carry on their affair onboard ship.  Charles Fraser - her tormentor turned friend - had been right, when he’d pointed out that she was technically his superior officer.  Having a relationship with him during shore leave was marginally acceptable.  Having one onboard ship would earn them both a dishonourable discharge.

And yet ... and yet, she knew she’d miss him.

“You’d better write,” she said, jabbing a finger at him.  “I expect to get a message from you every time I return to Earth.”

Barton nodded.  “Likewise,” he said.  He paused.  “Are you allowed to write messages?”

“You can write,” George said.  “I wasn't allowed to receive messages during my first month, but ... it might be different for you.  You’re already used to life on a starship.”

She sighed.  The academy’s policy had seemed outrageously unfair, particularly after she’d been forced to write a letter home each weekend at Hanover Towers.  Mrs Blackthorn had paced the classroom, reading the letters as they were written and making sure that nothing bad was said about the school.  It had always surprised her that none of the wealthy or well-connected parents had complained.  But then, she rather suspected that most of the parents had had the same treatment in their schools.

But the academy was different.  Cadets had to learn, the hard way, that they would be out of touch with their friends and families for months, if not years.  Their universe would shrink to the underground warren for the first six months, allowing them a chance to become accustomed to the claustrophobic conditions on a starship.  And if they really couldn't hack it, they'd be released and sent home.  The Royal Navy couldn't afford crewmen and officers who were unable to tolerate cramped working conditions.

And that’s why a lieutenant’s cabin seems so splendid, she thought, dryly.  She’d been in Fraser’s cabin a couple of times, back during her second cruise.  The cabin had been small, but compared to Middy Country it was paradise.    The former midshipman is used to sleeping in a cramped room with five or six others.

“We shall see,” Barton said.  “You can write me messages that will be held in the buffer, if necessary.”

“Likewise,” George said.

She finished her meal and put the plate back on the table.  “Are you aiming at command yourself?”

“I’m not sure,” Barton said, putting his own food aside.  “The advisor I spoke to suggested I’d need to move off warships, if I wanted command responsibility.  There are quite a few slots open on asteroid stations and mining ships.  But being an XO doesn't sound too bad either.”

He shook his head.  “I’m not that old, am I?”

“I’ll bring you a nice cup of warm milk and tuck you in,” George teased.  “And help you hobble to the bathroom in the middle of the night.”

Barton smirked, then launched himself at her.  George jumped aside, then darted around the room as he chased her.  He caught up with her near the bed, pushed her onto it and started to tickle her mercilessly.  George giggled, despite herself, as his fingers ran over her body, seeking out her most ticklish spots.  And then he was on top of her, pushing her down ...

“Give up?”

“Never,” George said.  She pretended to snap her teeth at him, then started to run her fingers down his back.  “You’ll have to do better than that.”

“I’m young enough to catch you,” Barton said, pulling back so he could start tickling her again.  “You can't escape.”

“Hah,” George said.  She forced herself forward, a trick she’d learned from the marines, then rolled over and off the side of the bed.  “Bye-bye.”

Barton snorted.  “I’m really not that old.”

“You’re four years older than me,” George said.  She slipped up and sat next to him.  “I don't think that’ll hurt your chances that much.”

“It depends,” Barton said.  “Either I’ll be considered too old by the time I make lieutenant or I’ll be charged with being stuck in Middy Country for years.”

“Only if they don’t read your file,” George said.  She wrapped an arm around his shoulders.  “I think you’re worrying over nothing.”

“I hope you’re right,” Barton said.

George nodded.  She’d been allowed to enter the academy at sixteen, but she’d been a special case.  It was more normal for cadets to enter the academy at eighteen, after completing an extra two years in school.  And the average age of a newly-minted midshipman was twenty-two.   A midshipman who was twenty-eight - or older - would raise eyebrows.  Barton would have the same problem as Charles Fraser, only worse.  His superiors would wonder if he was incompetent, merely because he hadn't been promoted.  They’d have to read his file to know he’d been commissioned at twenty-eight.

And what does happen, she asked herself, to commissioned mustangs?

“That’s enough about me,” Barton said, seriously.  He tickled her back, pushing her towards him.  “What about you?”

“I’m going back to Vanguard as marine liaison,” George said.  “I don’t know if that means I’ll still be serving as a midshipwoman too.”

Barton frowned.  “That’s odd,” he said.  “Normally, there isn’t a dedicated liaison officer.”

“I worked with them,” George reminded him.

“Just as a shuttle pilot,” Barton pointed out.  “You weren't actually meant to be fighting with them, were you?”

George shrugged.  Fraser had insisted on her actually working out with the marines, although she knew they’d been holding back when they’d sparred with her.  But she knew that wasn’t what he meant.  She hadn't been intended to crash-land on Unity, let alone join the marines as they fought the aliens.  It simply hadn't been her day.

“If there is a dedicated officer ...”

Barton’s voice trailed off.  “If there is,” he said after a moment, “someone must expect a major deployment.  I wonder where you’re going.”

George frowned.  “I was just called back to the ship,” she said.  The notification she’d been given had been short on actual detail, let alone hints on what Vanguard would be doing in the future.  “The refit must be nearly completed by now.”

“And the ship will be heading back to the war,” Barton said.  “Perhaps they intend to retake one of the occupied systems.”

“Maybe,” George said.  She didn't have access to any classified information - her uncle would have gone ballistic if she’d asked for a private briefing - but she knew that the only occupied worlds belonged to the Tadpoles.  There were no land-based civilians to get in the way of orbital bombardment, if the aliens refused to surrender after the orbitals were captured.  “But why would they need to?”

“There might be some industry on the surface,” Barton suggested.  He sounded as if he was grasping at straws.  It wasn't a convincing argument and he knew it.  “Something valuable enough to make landing an invasion force worthwhile.”

“I think anything like that would have been destroyed before the world was occupied,” George mused.  “The Tadpoles wouldn't have left their tech around for the enemies to capture.”

She considered it for a long moment.  Any major enemy presence could be blasted from orbit, ensuring that there was no risk of losing a single marine.  A handful of aliens might survive, if they were careful.  But they wouldn't pose any threat, not on a Tadpole world.  There was no logical reason to divert a marine division - or whatever - to hunt the remnants of the occupation force down.  And yet, if Barton was right, someone expected the marines to be heavily involved in the next deployment.  

“We might be hitting an alien world,” she mused.  “If we were to thrust upwards to UXS-469 and then into alien territory ...”

“Perhaps,” Barton agreed.  He frowned, clearly unconvinced.  “But you’d think we could force them to surrender, once we stripped the world’s high orbitals bare.  They wouldn't have a hope of keeping us from turning their world into ash.”

“I suppose,” George said.  “Unless they’re daft enough to think they can hold out under heavy bombardment.”

She held him close for a long moment, feeling oddly conflicted.  This was, if she wanted it, the perfect opportunity to end their relationship on a high note.  Three days and nights of doing nothing, but making love ... she smiled as she remembered the paintings in the bathroom.  Some of the acts looked physically impossible, unless the participants happened to be contortionists, yet some of the others ... they looked like fun, if they tried.  And then, she could allow the letters to dry up until they were separated completely.  He wasn't exactly a poor catch.  There would be other women in his life.

And yet, part of her didn't want to let go.  She liked him, in and out of bed.  

Don’t be fucking stupid, she told herself, firmly.  What were they?  Romeo and Juliet?  A thousand bad stories and worse movies told her that their relationship had no future.  You come from different worlds.  What sort of future could the two of you have?

She kissed his chin, torn between the hope he’d do something worthy of a peerage and the grim awareness that it was unlikely.  Even if he did ... would her family approve?  Or would they refuse to accept the match?  She could argue it either way.  Barton was hardly unintelligent, but he hadn't distinguished himself either.

“Three days,” she said, out loud.  They’d have fun, if nothing else.  And they could have a more serious chat the day he left for the academy.  If he found someone else, while she was gone, she wouldn't mind.  She told herself she wouldn't mind.  “I hope you weren't planning to leave this room for three days.”

“Not at all,” Barton said.  His fingers traced lines around her breasts, making her gasp in pleasure, then reached down to stroke between her legs.  “Food, drink, a bed, a bath ... what more do we need?”

George smiled, then shifted until she was kneeling in front of him.  “Nothing,” she said, seriously.  She held his manhood in her hand for a long moment, feeling him stiffen against her palms.  “Nothing at all.”

Chapter Eight

“We’ve been cleared through the no-fly zone,” the pilot said, as the helicopter flew over the Derbyshire countryside.  “Ground-based defences are tracking us now.”

“Good,” Henry said.

He leaned back in his chair and watched as Haddon Hall came into view.  It had been the county seat of a duke, if he recalled correctly, before the Troubles.  Now, it belonged to the Royal Family as a holiday resort and emergency bolthole.  Putting his family there wasn't the kindest thing he could have done, he knew, but it kept them away from both London and the never-to-be-sufficiently-damned media.  It wasn't Tadpole Prime, with its warm beaches and relaxed attitude to life, yet there was plenty within the grounds to keep a trio of young girls occupied.

It was a beautiful building, he had to admit.  An old manor house, surrounded by greenery; a lake, large enough to boat on ... there were times when the perks of being part of the Royal Family made the whole hellish experience seem worthwhile.  And yet, he would have given it up in a second, if he could.  The price was far too high.  

And they’ll try to keep me from returning to Tadpole Prime, he thought, grimly.  It didn’t take a genius to see the writing on the wall.  He’d been Earth’s ambassador to Tadpole Prime for nearly a decade.  Even if his country had no objection to him continuing in that role, other countries would want a chance to put their own man in.  I may have to find somewhere else to hide.

The helicopter touched down neatly on the landing pad, a pair of armed guards hurrying over to check his ID before letting him pass through the gates.  Haddon Hall looked innocent, but it was a high-security zone.  No one was allowed to enter without proper clearance, countersigned by Henry himself.  The media had already pitched a fit after two of their cockroaches had been roughed up by the guards.  Henry found it hard to care.  He’d never enjoyed being a prince and his daughters, no matter what the family claimed, were not princesses.

Well, not official princesses, he thought, wryly.  They’re my princesses.

He strode up towards the hall as thunder rumbled in the distance.  It was going to rain soon, he suspected.  Dark clouds were already drifting south.  England was known for rain, but the Bombardment had done a lot of damage to the planet’s weather systems.  Even now, ten years later, the weather could change with remarkable speed.  But then, he thought, that had always been true.

“Your Highness,” the butler said, as he opened the door.  “Your wife is in the front parlour, waiting for you.”

“Thank you,” Henry said.  He surrendered his coat, then turned to walk down the corridor.  “And my daughters?”

“I believe they went out riding this morning,” the butler informed him.  “They should be back at any moment.”

“Before it starts raining, one hopes,” Henry said.  He’d ridden in the rain, but it wasn't something he would encourage his daughters to do.  “Please ask them to come find me when they return.”

He smiled as he walked down the corridor.  Young girls were mad about horses - and his three daughters, apparently, were no exception.  He’d insisted that they learn to take care of the beasts - feeding them, tending them, mucking out the stables - as well as learning to ride, despite their protests.  Riding horses almost made up for having to leave Tadpole Prime and all the friends they’d made there.  But he would be surprised, in all honesty, if they hadn't started to feel a little confined.  Haddon Hall was hardly HMP Brixton, let alone Colchester Military Detention Centre, but they were rarely allowed to leave the estate.  And there were no other children to play with, not on the grounds.  They had to make their own entertainment.

“Henry,” Janelle said.  She sounded tired - and bored.  “Welcome home.”

Henry felt a stab of guilt as he gave his wife a hug.  His daughters weren't the only ones who’d been dragged away from their home and friends.  Janelle, the wife of the lead ambassador, had been an important person on Tadpole Prime.  She was still an important person on Earth, Henry knew, but the price was a lot steeper.  Despite his best efforts, he hadn't been able to prevent reporters from digging into his wife’s past, or making mountains out of molehills.  There was even a nasty rumour flying around that Janelle had had a relationship with Admiral Smith.  And to think there’d been nearly forty years between them!

“I’m going back to space,” he said, shortly.  He didn't know how to sugar-coat the truth.  His wife had been a spacer, before they’d married.  She knew the facts of life.  And yet, neither of them had been in the military for over a decade.  “They want a liaison officer along for a joint offensive.”

“There have to be others,” Janelle said.  But there was no real heat to her voice.  She knew as well as he did that there were only a few experienced officers who’d also served as ambassadors.  “When are you leaving?”

“A fortnight, I think,” Henry said.  It wasn't entirely true.  He knew he couldn't stay at Haddon Hall for more than a few days.  Someone would have to organise the xenospecialists as they readied themselves for the move.  Hell, he’d have to decide who was allowed to accompany the task force and who was too valuable to risk.  “I should have at least four days here.”

“Good,” Janelle said, tartly.  “You can sit down with Victoria and explain the facts of life.”

Henry blinked.  “... What?”

“That she can't leave the grounds and that she can't have any of her friends come to visit,” Janelle told him.  “She threw a tantrum last night because Donald didn't invite her to his birthday party.”

“He’s hundreds of light years away,” Henry protested.  Donald - two years older than Victoria - was still on Tadpole Prime, as far as he knew.  “How can she ...?”

“She’s eight years old,” Janelle reminded him, sharply.  “All she knows is that she’s been dragged away from her home and dumped in a miserable place where there’s no one to play with apart from her sisters and servants, the youngest of whom is at least fifteen fucking years older than her!  She is not happy here!”

“And would she be happy,” Henry asked, “if we sent her to Hanover Towers?  Or Greenstones?”

“She’s too young for boarding school,” Janelle snapped.  “And even if we did send her, would it be safe?”

Henry winced.  He’d been sent to boarding school as soon as he’d turned twelve, four years older than his daughter.  And it hadn’t been safe.  Sadistic teachers, nasty pupils who joked about beating up their future king ... if he ever met one of the writers who waxed lyrical about life in a boarding school, he was going to take the headmaster’s cane, sharpen the tip to a point and ram it up their backside.  It was clear that none of those writers had ever been to boarding school.  The schools were certainly no place for an eight-year-old girl.  

Not to mention the reporters swarming around like flies, he thought, sourly.  And someone from the palace will try to convince the headmaster to cooperate with the media.

He shook his head.  He’d tried to remove himself from the line of succession, but Buckingham Palace had blocked him from removing himself completely.  His sister would take the throne - she wanted it, the silly goose - yet if something happened to her, Henry and his daughters would be first in line.  He hadn't managed to remove them from the line of succession either.  And, with the government’s majority slowly being eroded, some ministers would probably be tempted to use his daughters to divert public attention.

“I’ll talk to her,” he said, finally.  “What about the others?”

“They’re playing with horses,” Janelle said.  “But they miss their friends too.  Is there no way we can invite others to play with them?”

Henry made a face.  “It would cause too many problems,” he said.  He could try to invite some of the aristocratic children, but what did they have in common with his kids?  “And bringing their parents into the hall would cause other problems.”

“Of course,” Janelle said, sardonically.  “Is there nowhere else we can go?”

“Not unless you want reporters swarming around you like flies on rotting meat,” Henry reminded her.  “The security requirements alone would draw their attention.”

He sighed.  He’d spent a great deal of time ducking his father’s ... requests ... that his grandchildren be formally presented at court.  There was no way he would allow it, not until the girls were old enough to make up their own minds.  Once they were presented, there would be no way to remove them from the Royal Family.  Henry was a grown adult and yet even he had problems.  

And it would be worse if I had nothing to do, but sit around and wait to be king, he thought, feeling an odd flicker of sympathy for his sister.  She was in training for a job, but she could only do that job when her father died.  It was quite possible that she’d be in her fifties when her father finally shuffled off the mortal coil, with children and perhaps even grandchildren of her own.  How long would it be before I was wishing my father dead?

He pushed the thought aside as a maid entered, carrying a tea tray.  His father wasn't a bad man, and he made a splendid king for ceremonial occasions, but he’d long since lost the urge to reform the monarchy.  The parasites surrounding the crown had made sure of it, preventing him from changing anything.  He was king, but king in name only.  In truth, he was little more than one of those expensive dolls Henry’s sister had used to play with.  He spoke, but only as he was commanded; he dressed, wearing only what he was told to wear.  Henry knew, all too well, why so many members of the family went off the rails.  They were trapped in a gilded cage.

“Thank you,” he said, as the maid poured tea.  “We’ll have dinner in the small room tonight, if possible.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” the maid said.

Janelle looked unhappy as the maid curtseyed and retreated, closing the wooden door behind her.  Henry didn't really blame her.  Servants had been a part of his life from birth, but people who weren't raised in upper-class households found them a little creepy.  Henry knew, better than most, just how easily servants could betray their masters.  Snow would fall in hell before he forgave his former nanny for publishing a book about his early years.  The bitch had gleefully violated a non-disclosure agreement and gotten away with it.

Because they thought she made me sound like an idealised child, he thought, sourly.  The book wasn't exactly a pack of outright lies, but the nanny had done a great deal of lying through omission.  I wasn't one of those Purity Sue’s from Victorian storybooks.

“There's no one here for me to talk to either,” Janelle said.  She took her cup and sipped thoughtfully.  “I think I’m going to go mad.”

“You can write emails,” Henry reminded her.  “Or ...”

Janelle put the cup down, hard.  Warm liquid splashed onto the table.

“You know better than that,” she snapped.  “There’s no one here to talk to and you know it!”

Henry winced.  Janelle had never been friendless, not until now.  She’d been popular on Ark Royal, then the most important woman on Tadpole Prime ... now, she had no one to talk to, save for servants who were unlikely to disagree with her about anything.  And the servants might not even be trustworthy!  Who knew which of Janelle’s remarks would be spread across the datanet in less time than it took to make a cup of tea?  Janelle was isolated and alone and ...

“I wish I had a better solution,” he said, finally.  He could take his wife with him, couldn't he?  But that would mean leaving his preteen daughters to the tender mercies of the Royal Family.  They wouldn't be harmed, but they’d be trapped.  “Do you have one?”

Janelle glared at him, but said nothing.  Henry felt another stab of guilt, mixed with annoyance.  She'd known what she was getting into when she’d married him.  Maybe it would have been hard to extract herself from him beforehand, if she’d wanted to, but it should have been possible.  He could have pulled strings to get her a posting somewhere far from Earth.  The media would have given up on her eventually.

But imagining the life is far different from actually living it, Henry thought.  He’d lost count of the number of gold-diggers he’d met at court.  And she can’t leave without triggering a tremendous fight.

The door opened.  Victoria stepped into the room.

Henry resisted, barely, the urge to sigh.  Victoria was wearing muddy jodhpurs and a straw hat that fell down over her eyes.  Her shirt was wet - Henry glanced out the window and saw that the skies had opened, cold rain plummeting down to splash off the windowpane.  And she smelt of horse.  She clearly hadn't bothered to shower before coming to find him.

“Daddy,” she said.  She ran forward and gave him a hug.  “Are you staying?  I want to show you Trigger and Daisy and Flower and ... the Swallow and ...”

“I’ll be staying for a while,” Henry promised.  His oldest daughter smiled so brightly that he thought a second sun had blazed to life.  “What’s the Swallow?”

“The boat,” Janelle said.  She sounded as if she was torn between amusement and disapproval.  “They’ve been taking her out on the lake every day.”

“She’s fantastic, dad,” Victoria said.   “We went fishing and I caught a dozen fish and I threw them back into the water and James told me I could have had them for dinner and I thought it was cruel because the fish might have been a Tadpole and he ...”

She broke off, gasping for breath.

“Breathe,” Henry said, with some amusement.  It wasn't too likely that any fish on the estate were secretly intelligent, but it was a valid concern on Tadpole Prime.  Oddly, the Tadpoles themselves didn't seem to care about their children.  Only a relative handful ever grew up into adulthood.  “Did you have fish for dinner?”

“Fish are sweet,” Victoria said.  “We had pork instead.  Pigs are ugly.”

Henry had to smile.  “I’m sure it was a good dinner,” he said.  The food at Haddon Hall would be first-rate, of course.  Only the best for the aristocracy.  “What else have you been doing?”

“We found a maze, but it was pathetic,” Victoria insisted.  “We couldn't get lost, no matter how hard we tried.  It was easy to find our way out.  And we tried to build a treehouse, but mummy wouldn't let us climb the tree ... can we, dad?  Can we?”

“I think you should listen to your mother,” Henry said, firmly.  Building a treehouse might be fun for teenagers, but dangerous for preteens.  “Or you can ask James if he and the staff would like to build one for you.”

“It wouldn't be the same,” Victoria said.  Her face fell.  “We had a treehouse back home.”

“You didn't build it,” Henry said, trying to ignore the odd twist in his heart.  Home, as far as Victoria was concerned, was Tadpole Prime.  “You can try to build one when you’re old enough.”

“I miss my friends,” Victoria said.  She looked up, suddenly hopeful.  “Can I invite them for my birthday party?”

Henry glanced at Janelle, helplessly.  She raised an eyebrow, silently challenging him to think of an answer that wouldn't result in tears.  Victoria’s birthday was a month away, when he’d be halfway to enemy space.  He wouldn't be there.  And even if he was, there was no way Victoria could invite her friends.  They were either on Tadpole Prime or scattered around the Human Sphere.  Her ninth birthday would be the loneliest she’d ever had.

“I’m afraid they won’t be able to make it,” Henry said, finally.  He wanted to tell his daughter a comforting lie, but what could he say?  “They’re a very long way away.”

“That’s what Patty said,” Victoria reminded him.  “And she made it back in time for Ling’s birthday party!”

“Your friends are much further away,” Henry told her.  Patty was the American ambassador’s stepdaughter, if he recalled correctly.  He’d been recalled to Earth for consultations, taking his stepdaughter with him on the assumption he might not be allowed to return.  But he had returned, just in time for the party.  “And they can't come here.”

“I hate this place,” Victoria said.  She kicked the seat.  “It’s cold and there’s no one to play with!”

“You have your sisters,” Henry reminded her.

“They’re babies,” Victoria protested.  “Children!”

Henry wondered, absently, if he’d ever said that about his sister.  He couldn't recall ... but then, he’d never had the chance to get used to playing with other children.  Victoria knew nothing of the social or political realities, not really.  All she knew was that she’d had friends, a year ago.  Now, she was trapped in a gilded cage, completely alone save for her younger sisters.  The estate was large enough for a dozen children her age, but she could never go beyond the wall.

“I know how you feel,” he said, hugging her.  “But we can't go back until the war is over.”

Victoria looked up at him.  “And when will the war be over?”

“I don’t know,” Henry said.  He didn't know if Victoria even knew what a war was.  She certainly didn't know what it meant.  “But when it is, we’ll go home.”

And he hoped, desperately, that he’d be able to keep that promise.

Chapter Nine

“There she blows, Captain,” the pilot said.

Susan put down the datapad and leaned forward as HMS Vanguard slowly took on shape and form.  The giant battleship had been moved out of the repair yard and was now floating in space, just inside the security perimeter surrounding the shipyard.  A blaze of light surrounded Vanguard, allowing her to see the handful of repair modules clustered close to her ship.  It was hard to be sure, but - as the spotlights played over Vanguard’s dark hull - it was clear that additional point defence clusters had been added to her defences.

“She’s impressive,” the pilot said.  “You must be very proud.”

“I am,” Susan said.

HMS Vanguard looked like a giant dumbbell, although only an idiot would say that where her crew could hear.  Four massive turrets at the prow, four more at the rear; her hull bristled with missile tubes, point defence weapons and sensor blisters.  Her mighty drives were clearly powered down, but there was still a sense that she could leap forward and smite the enemies of Britain at any moment.  A dozen shuttles were docked at various airlocks, suggesting that some of her crew were returning from shore leave; a handful of men were going EVA and inspecting the outer hull.  Susan sucked in a breath, despite herself, as the battleship grew larger and larger until she was dominating the scene.  Vanguard wasn't the largest starship ever built and put into service, but she was perhaps the most advanced ship for her size.

And the only bigger ships are the giant colonist-carriers, she thought.  Even now, with a war on, the colonist-carriers were still carrying hundreds of thousands of settlers away from Earth.  Even the bulk freighters don't come close.

The pilot cleared his throat.  “We’ve been ordered to dock at Airlock One,” he said.  “Is that suitable?”

“It will suffice,” Susan said, grandly.  It wasn't a problem, although she knew that some commanding officers would interpret it as a snub - or a deliberate insult.  Commander Paul Mason, her XO, knew how much she disliked pomp and circumstance.  “Take us in as quickly as possible.”

She’d seen the reports, in-between reading countless technological and sociological assessments Admiral Fitzwilliam had seen fit to forward to her, but seeing the battleship in person always took her breath away.  Her eyes traced out the emplacements, noting the points where the newer weapons had replaced the old.  Admiral Soskice had insisted that the latest generation of missiles had more range and destructive power than anything the Royal Navy had deployed before, but they were over a third larger than standard missiles.  The entire missile tube structure had had to be pulled out and refitted before the latest missiles could be loaded onto the ship.

And they may still be ineffective against enemy point defence, Susan thought.  Lasers and pulse cannons could take out missiles well before bomb-pumped lasers could pose a serious threat.  We’d have to fire hundreds just to be sure of scoring a hit.

“Wow,” the pilot breathed.

Susan followed his gaze.  Dozens of worker bees - and men in suits - were swarming around Turret Four, adjusting the giant plasma cannons.  Susan allowed herself a tight smile as a sheet of solid-state armour - the latest, she’d been assured - was bolted into place, providing protection against anything short of a focused nuclear blast.  Vanguard could have wiped the floor with the fleets that had fought the First Interstellar War, she thought.  Even Ark Royal, the heavily-armoured supercarrier, wouldn't have posed much of a threat.

Unless we were rammed, she thought.  Crashing a supercarrier into a battleship would destroy both ships.

She scowled at the thought.  She’d seen the footage of Ark Royal’s last moments, everyone had.  There was something obscene about the way two mighty ships had collided, the destruction ripping both ships apart in terrifying slow motion.  The explosions had come late, too late.  It was hard to escape the sense that one or both ships might have survived, even though she knew it was unlikely.  Ramming was almost always fatal.

The shuttle shuddered, slightly, as it docked with Vanguard, the gravity flickering a second later as its onboard field matched the battleship’s.  Susan heard a low hiss as the airlock opened, catching a faint whiff of her ship’s familiar scent as air blew into the cabin.  She picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulder and headed for the hatch.  It wasn't as if she had much to carry.  She'd always travelled light.

Father drilled that into me from a very early age, she thought, ruefully.  And it came in handy, didn't it?

She smiled at the thought as the inner hatch hissed open.  There was no mistaking the heady scent of a warship that had seen combat, even though it was mixed with scents from the repair crews and new components that had been inserted into the hull.  She closed her eyes for a long moment, feeling as though she was finally home.  The dull thrumming echoing through the hull - the fusion cores, even though the drive was powered down - seemed to be welcoming her.

“Captain,” a voice said.  “Welcome back.”

Susan opened her eyes.  Commander Paul Mason was standing there, wearing a duty uniform that had clearly seen better days.  She made a mental note to ensure he ordered a new one before Admiral Naiser and his staff boarded the battleship.  Admiral Naiser would understand the realities, of course - he’d been a serving officer during wartime - but his staff might not be so forgiving.  She didn't have time to correct them, even if she had the authority.

“Thank you,” she said.  She returned his salute, then shook his hand.  “It’s good to be back.”

They fell into step, heading down towards the bridge and Susan’s ready room.  “I trust you had a pleasant time on the surface,” Mason said.  “Did they take it out of your shore leave?”

“Only a couple of days,” Susan said.  “I spent most of the last month at the Admiralty or the MOD.”

“A terrible holiday,” Mason said, wryly.  “How was your father?”

“Growing insistent about grandchildren,” Susan admitted.  Mason was an old friend.  She could talk freely to him.  “He seems to think he won’t have anyone to dandle on his knee.”

“It isn't as if you’re that old,” Mason pointed out.  “And you do have frozen eggs, don’t you?”

Susan nodded.  It was a standard precaution, one the navy offered for free.  Men were invited to freeze sperm; women were invited to freeze eggs and embryos.  Modern medicine had ensured that women could have children into their late seventies, but spacers faced the very real risk of radiation damage and other threats.  If worst came to worst, she could have a child grown in an exowomb.  But she wasn't sure if she could handle a child when she turned seventy.

I’m in my early thirties, she told herself, sternly.  I have plenty of time to get married or birth a child.

She sighed, inwardly.  A couple of generations ago, women who refused to have children - or put having kids behind their career - had faced social ostracism.  Britain’s native population had been in decline before the Troubles and, afterwards, motherhood had come to be seen as far more important.  But now ... she knew she could have both, if she wanted it.  She just wasn't sure she did.

“Fathers,” she said.  She changed the subject before it could get any more embarrassing.  “Did you manage to take a few days off?”

“Got to visit Sin City for a couple of days,” Mason said.  “Had to make some trades, though.”

“Oh,” Susan said.  “Do I want to know?”

“It’s growing wilder,” Mason said.  “But it still doesn't live up to memories.”

Susan smirked.  Sin City - the original Sin City - had been destroyed during the Battle of Earth.  She rather doubted the Tadpoles had known what they’d hit, when they’d fired on lunar installations, but it hardly mattered.  Nothing could have galvanised every spacer in the system into throwing everything at the invading aliens more than the destruction of Sin City and its semi-illicit pleasures.

And the new one is much more controlled, she reminded herself.  And it isn't really a bad thing, is it?

She dismissed the thought as they stepped through the hatch and into her ready room.  Mason had practically taken it over, like before.  He’d turned the sofa into a bed and covered the desk in paperwork, both physical and electronic.  A bottle of wine sat on the desk, two empty glasses placed next to it.  And a giant hologram of Vanguard floated over the desk.

“I was lucky enough to pick up a bottle of Luna Picard 2200,” Mason said, picking up the bottle to show her.  “It may well be one of the few surviving bottles from that vineyard.”

“I doubt it,” Susan said.  The vineyard domes on the moon had been damaged in the war, but not that badly.  “It would cost a bomb if it had.”

Mason shrugged, pouring them both a glass.  “It cost more than I care to think about,” he said.  “Thankfully, the guy who was trying to outbid me fled the auction room before he had to pay.”

“I don’t want to know,” Susan said.  She’d never understood Mason’s fascination with auctions.  It wasn't as if he had any use for half the things he bought.  Hell, getting them back to his home would be a struggle.  “How much did it cost you?”

“I thought you didn't want to know,” Mason said.  He held out a glass to her.  “To our departure.”

“To our departure,” Susan echoed.  She took a sip, then frowned.  “What sort of scuttlebutt have you heard?”

“Well, we’re suddenly at the top of the list for supplies, we’re stripping out the flag deck for an admiral and you’ve been busy on Earth rather than coming back here to retake command,” Mason said.  “It's clear we're going somewhere.”

“Back to the war,” Susan said, shortly.  It was true enough.  “But the remainder of the details are classified.”

“Naturally,” Mason said.  “Speculating is half the fun.”

He grinned.  “Crewman Rogers is offering decent odds on a return to Unity,” he added.  “The runner-up is a trip to Tadpole Prime, followed by a push through to UXS-469 and alien space - if they refuse to come to terms, of course.”

“You’re going to have to have a few words with Crewman Rogers,” Susan said.  There was no way that anyone could eradicate gambling onboard ship, but it was far too easy for it to get out of hand.  It was a shame there was no real way to rebuke anyone for gambling on the mission’s goals.  “Is he observing the limits?”

“I think so,” Mason said.  “I’ve made it pretty clear to him that going over the limits will end very badly.”

Susan sighed.  Gambling wasn't precisely against regulations, but there was a very real difference between the official and unofficial limitations.  A crewman could gamble away his entire salary, even though there were supposed to be strict limits on what could be used as a stake.  And no one wanted to go to a superior officer and admit they’d gambled away their entire paycheck for the month.  They would be admitting to breaking regulations themselves.

And then they find themselves deeper and deeper in debt, she thought, grimly.  And if they’re unlucky, they find themselves having to pay with something other than money.

“Good,” she said, coldly.  She was damned if she was allowing that sort of nightmare on her ship.  “Don’t let him do anything stupid.”

She leaned back in her chair and took another sip of the wine.  Hanover Towers had made an effort to teach her about wine - apparently under the mistaken belief she was going to be a society wife who needed to be able to babble about grapes - but she’d never had the money to develop expensive tastes.  Mason hadn't made a bad choice, she decided as the heavy liquid slid down her throat, yet it wasn't something she wanted to drink regularly.  Which was lucky, she supposed.  Her salary was very good, but she wasn’t going to blow it all on expensive wine.

“And now,” she said.  “What have they done to my ship?”

Mason took a moment to gather his thoughts.  “The damage we sustained in the last series of engagements has been repaired - again,” he said.  “I think the dockyard workers are getting pretty used to us, as this is the second time we’ve limped home.  Much of the armour has been replaced with the latest composite, after we tested it extensively.  We’re now tougher than we were during our last deployment.”

“Good,” Susan said.  “Can we stand up to a focused nuke?”

“The damage will be contained,” Mason said.  “They’ve also extensively modified the fusion cores and power distribution systems, based on our experience in the last year.  Our drives are now better protected than they were, while the fusion cores are easier to fix while underway.  The downside of all this” - he held up a hand - “is that efficiency isn't so high.  I’ll send the full report to your terminal.”

Susan winced.  Repairing the fusion cores was damn near impossible, at least away from a shipyard.  If they could be modified to allow for onboard repairs ... it was worth it, she supposed.  She’d have to check the equations and projected power curves to be sure.  The cores might need to be run constantly, putting more wear and tear on the system.  But then, she reminded herself, anything that made it easier to repair the ship was worthwhile.  A disaster that took out most of the fusion cores would probably take out the entire ship.

Or strand us, she added, thoughtfully.  And that would be the end.

“I’ll read the reports carefully,” she said.  “Weapons?”

“The new missiles, if the simulations are to be believed, may be better than we had expected,” Mason said.  “I’ve gone through the unclassified files very carefully - if they’re right, the enemy may have some difficulty getting an effective lock on their precise location and taking them out.  On the other hand, it wouldn't be the first time something functioned perfectly in the lab and failed completely in the field.”

Susan groaned.  “And we won’t know until we fire them at the enemy.”

She shook her head, tiredly.  The boffins never bothered to account for reality when they did their trials.  There was always something missing, something that always took a toll in the real world.  She’d heard enough horror stories to be very wary of anything the boffins said until she’d seen it tested in the field.

“No,” Mason agreed.  “And the enemy may be putting their own versions into production too.”

“True,” Susan agreed.

“Our plasma cannons have been enhanced, again,” Mason added.  “They now pack an even bigger punch, with a longer range.  We should be able to give the enemy a nasty fright, if they follow their standard tactics.  They’ll be in range before they know it.  And our point defence is much more effective.”

“But they can still sweep most of the guns off our hull,” Susan said.

“I’m afraid so,” Mason said.  “We don’t have a force shield just yet.”

Susan nodded, ruefully.  Another Holy Grail ... and one that was supposed to be theoretically possible.  But so far none of the boffins had managed to make one that was even remotely reliable.  The shields simply couldn't stand up to anything.  

And they can cripple most of our point defence once we enter weapons range, she reminded herself.  It had happened before, despite their best efforts.  And there’s nothing we can do about it.

“We have stockpiled additional weapon pods,” Mason told her.  “But we can't refit them while under fire.”

“Of course not,” Susan agreed.  She took another sip of her wine.  “Is there anything else I ought to know?”

“Most of the newcomers seem to have fitted into the crew,” Mason said.  “Crewman Patrick Young has apparently deserted, as he is now five days overdue after going on leave to Sin City.  I’ve notified the Shore Patrol and the Luna Police, as there is a possibility he might have simply lost track of time.”

“He can try explaining that to the Senior Chief,” Susan said, dryly.

It wasn't as absurd as it sounded.  A person who plugged himself into a bliss machine - direct electronic simulation of his pleasure centres - could easily lose track of time.  Men had been known to waste away in the machines, too lost in their own pleasure to realise that they were slowly starving to death.  But a careful operator would ensure that his customers were hooked up to IV tubes, as long as their money lasted.  

And if he is lost in bliss, Susan thought, he may be unable to return to duty in any case.

“Naturally,” Mason agreed.  He sighed.  “If he doesn't report back within a couple of days, he’ll be in deep shit anyway.  The roster will have to be rewritten to exclude him.”

“Handle it as you see fit,” Susan told him.  “And if he did decide to leave us, make sure he gets handed over for trial.”

“Of course,” Mason said.  “Apart from that, there have been no major issues and only a couple of minor ones.  All of them have been handled.”

“Good,” Susan said.  She finished her wine, then placed the glass on the table.  “Do you want to show me the changes before I resume command?”

“It will be my pleasure,” Mason said.  He gave her a droll smile.  “Commanding here doesn't go on my record.”

“Be glad of it,” Susan said.  Earth was a long way from the war front, but there was nothing stopping the Foxes from trying to strike at humanity’s homeworld.  Vanguard might have to power up and go on the offensive in a hurry.  “If it did, we’d be in trouble.”

Chapter Ten

George felt sore - but in a good way - as the alarm bleeped, waking her up.  For a long moment, she was confused before remembering that she’d set the alarm before climbing into bed.  Their lovemaking had been particularly intense before they’d fallen asleep, she remembered, as she hit the terminal with one hand.  They wouldn't be able to meet again for months, if not years.

Barton’s head emerged from under the blankets.  “What time is it?”

“1000,” George lied.  “Your shuttle leaves in twenty minutes.”

Barton jumped up, rolling out of bed.  “Where’s my ...?”

He broke off.  “You lied!”

“Of course,” George said.  They wouldn't have been able to get to Heathrow in twenty minutes, even if they’d taken a jet.  “It’s 0800 and you need to have a shower and get dressed.”

“Oh,” Barton said.  He rubbed his forehead as he stood.  “Put your butt over here so I can slap it.”

“Maybe later,” George teased.  She climbed out of bed and headed for the shower.  “We both need to wash.”

She wished, as she ran hot water over her body, that they had time for one final bout of lovemaking.  But they didn't.  Really, they were pushing things too close to the edge.  He joined her a moment later, faint marks clearly visible on his back where her nails had dug into his skin.  She kissed him lightly, then hurried back into the bedroom to order breakfast before getting dressed.  They’d left the room so messy, she realised as she picked out her clothes, that the maids were not going to have fun cleaning it.  She made a mental note to leave a huge tip before they headed to the spaceport.  She’d be coming back, but the maids would be cleaning the room before she returned.

“I’ve ordered a taxi too,” she said, as he walked into the bedroom and reached for his underpants.  “We’ll be leaving in thirty minutes.”

Barton nodded.  “You don’t have to come with me, not if you don’t want to.”

“I might as well,” George said.  “What would I do in London without you?”

The maid knocked before Barton could come up with a reply.  George smirked, then opened the door.  The maid carried in a large tray of breakfast, placed it on the table and retreated silently.  George was starting to think they could give the marines lessons in sneaking about without making a sound.  Barton shook his head after her - if anything, her dress was shorter than ever - and then stared down at the food.  George knew exactly how he felt.

“Eat as much as you can,” she said.  God knew she’d had problems eating on the day she’d first walked into the academy.  He ought to understand the importance of eating better than the sixteen-year-old brat she’d been.  “You’ll need it.”

Barton nodded and picked up a pastry.  “Has it really been three days?”

“Yeah,” George said.  It had been strange; strange and delightful.  Three days in the same room, with the same man ... no wonder they’d lost track of time.  “I’m afraid it has.”

She munched her own breakfast, enjoying the mixture of tastes.  It wouldn't be long before she was back on Vanguard, eating shipboard food.  The cooks weren't bad, but naval food tended to be somewhat limited.  And the less said about marine rations the better.  

“It’s been wonderful,” Barton said.  “Thank you.”

“Consider it a gift,” George told him.  “I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you.”

“Maybe,” Barton said.  “But thank you anyway.”

George sucked in a breath as she sipped her coffee.  “You’ll be on the moon, studying,” she said.  “And I’ll be somewhere a million light years away.”

“More like a few hundred,” Barton pointed out.  He smiled.  “It doesn't really matter that much, does it?”

“No,” George agreed.  A hundred light years or a million ... they were still going to be parted for a very long time.  “I hope you won’t be visiting Sin City that often.”

“I’m meant to be studying,” Barton said.  “To learn how to act like an officer and a gentleman and a prat.”

“Walk around with your nose high in the air,” George said.  “I don’t think they’ll have that much to teach you.  You’ll probably be commissioned by the end of the year.”

“I doubt it,” Barton said.  “The commissioning rate for mustangs is only seventy percent, I think.  The remainder get to become chiefs instead.  I can't afford to take time off to enjoy myself.”

“I thought the same too,” George said.  “This probably explains why I was at the bottom of my class.”

Barton smirked.  “I thought you did well enough to get Vanguard,” he said.  “She’s hardly a garbage scow.”

George shrugged.  She hadn't done badly, she knew, but she hadn't been at the top of the class either.  HMS Vanguard, she assumed, had been the luck of the draw.  Or someone covertly pulling strings on her behalf.  She knew from experience that both were quite possible.

“That’s not the point,” she said.  She hesitated, unsure what to say.  “I don’t know what will happen in a year or two years or however long it takes you to get commissioned.  And for me to return to the system.  We’ve never been apart for so long, even if we didn't have any actual privacy.”

She paused, struggling for words.  “If you find someone else,” she said.  “Just ... just tell me, ok?  I won’t blame you.  I ...”

Barton looked at her for a long moment.  “Likewise,” he said, finally.  “And I won’t blame you either.”

George sighed.  They’d never talked about the future.  Hell, with a war on, there was a very good chance they might not have a future.  Hundreds of thousands had already died, hundreds of thousands more would die ... there was a possibility, a strong possibility, that the list of destroyed ships might eventually include HMS Vanguard.  And if that happened, she suspected she would go down with the ship.  A long-term relationship, perhaps even marriage ... it wouldn't be on the cards until after the war, if they lasted that long.

But it hurt to tell him he could go, if he wanted.  And she hoped he felt the same way too.

They finished their breakfast in silence.  Something had gone out of them, George knew, even though she’d had to raise the issue.  Perhaps, if they had the opportunity to make love one final time ... she shook her head, knowing it would be different.  She had no choice, but to wait and see what happened when she returned to Sol.

Her terminal bleeped.  She glanced at it, surprised.

“My uncle wants me to meet him,” she said, astonished.  “Why?”

She’d met with her uncle two months ago, right before she’d been sent to the marines, but ... it was rare for him to summon her directly.  How had he even known she was in London?  She cursed her slow brain a moment later.  She’d been using her trust fund in London and her parents would have been notified.  One of them had probably passed the message on to her uncle.

“Maybe he just wants to see you,” Barton said.  “You’re his favourite niece, aren't you?”

“He has three children,” George said, absently.  She had butterflies in her stomach.  If her uncle was willing to summon her, it had to be important.  “He doesn’t see any reason to favour me.”

She sighed, crossly.  “And I can't go with you to Heathrow,” she added, passing him the terminal.  “He wants to meet me at 0930.”

“A lucky escape,” Barton said, dryly.  “You do realise you would have been driving back alone?”

George nodded.  Perhaps, with the new tension between them, it was a good thing, even though it was an annoying coincidence.  Or was it really a coincidence?  Her uncle could easily have contrived to keep her from accompanying her lover to the spaceport, if he’d wished.  But it struck her as rather pointless.

“I know,” she said.

She kissed him goodbye once he’d packed, then scooped up her own bag and walked down to the ground floor.  London was slowly coming to life, crowds wandering around as though they had somewhere to go.  She frowned at the heavy police presence as she hurried through the streets to the Admiralty.  There seemed to be more police on the streets than she’d ever seen, even during New Year celebrations.  The guards greeted her when she reached the Admiralty, but insisted on checking her ID and fingerprints before allowing her to proceed through the gates.  She knew she shouldn't be annoyed - it was their job - yet she couldn't help finding it annoying.  There were only two days of leave left before she returned to her ship.

“Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam,” a calm voice said.  Her uncle’s aide was standing by the door.  “Your uncle is waiting for you.”

George directed a death glare at the woman’s back as she led the way up the stairs.  There was no way to hide her connection to her uncle - Fitzwilliam wasn't that common a surname, certainly not in the Royal Navy - but she would prefer that it wasn't bandied about so casually by a woman who didn't seem to be anything other than beautiful.  She knew she was being unfair, yet it was hard to be reasonable when her plans had been spoilt and the entire world had been reminded - again - that her uncle held the power of life and death over every spacer in the navy.  And she wished, as she was shown into a large office, that she didn't feel as though she was being marched to the headmistress for a lecture.

“George,” her uncle said.  He was standing against the window, peering down at London below.  “Thank you for coming.”

“Your invitation suggested it was urgent,” George said.  She knew she should be politer, too, but she was annoyed.  “And that I didn't have a choice.”

The door closed behind her, loudly.  She tried to ignore it.

“Your young man is on his way to the moon,” her uncle said.  He didn't look away from the window.  “I’m sure he’ll do well there.”

George’s eyes narrowed.  “Did you get him the post?”

“I may have had a word or two with the examiner,” her uncle said, casually.  There was a faint edge to his voice that only someone who knew him very well would hear.  “But I assure you he met the minimum requirements for the academy.”

“You gave him the place to separate us,” George snarled.  Barton had been proud of his achievement.  Her uncle ... she clenched her fists in rage.  How dare he?  “You ...”

Her uncle turned to face her.  “You are not a twelve-year-old girl any longer,” he said, sharply.  “You are a twenty-one-year-old midshipwoman in the Royal Navy.  Sit down, shut up and let me finish.”

George sat, stunned.

“First, your boyfriend did meet the requirements,” her uncle said.  “I can prove that to you if you wish.  I freely admit that I did put his name forward, but I would not have done that unless there was a reasonable chance of him completing the course.”

“Thank you,” George said, tartly.

Her uncle shot her a sharp glance.  “Second, certain ... elements within the media have noticed your relationship,” he added.  “So far, it’s stayed firmly in the pointless babbling sections of the datanet, but it won’t be long before the tabloids decide it’s actually creditable.”

George scowled.  “Those parts of the datanet also think we’re descendants of space lizards who crash-landed on Earth a billion years ago,” she pointed out.  “What sort of credibility do they have?”

“You might be surprised,” her uncle said.  “Yes, a lot of the crap they spew out is obvious nonsense, but there are a few gems out there.  I imagine someone at the Royal Hotel did a little research, then tipped them off.  The tabloids will decide it’s creditable sooner or later.”

He met her eyes.  “And even if it wasn't true,” he added, “it would still reflect badly on you.”

“Yes, sir,” George said.

“Now,” her uncle continued.  “You have been separated, seemingly by chance.  Should you meet again, you will do so as formal equals.  And if you choose to develop a relationship then, you will have a fair chance of doing it without raising eyebrows.”

George glared back at him.  “And who cares about their opinions?”

“You were born into a powerful and wealthy family,” her uncle said.  He jabbed a finger at her chest.  “Your father is an important government minister.  Your uncle is the First Space Lord.  Your more distant relatives include two cabinet ministers and nine members of the House of Lords.  And you are, technically, in line to the throne.”

“Assuming fifty-seven people die ahead of me,” George snapped.  “Is that ever going to happen?”

“One would hope not,” her uncle said, dryly.  “The point of the matter, Georgina, is that your conduct reflects badly on your family.  No one cares what you do on shore leave, as long as it stays private, but they do care about something that might lead to scandal - and charges under naval regulations.”

“Of course,” George said.  She tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice.  “I could go to bed with five men or ten women and no one would give a damn, but do something that calls the family into disrepute ...”

“Exactly,” her uncle said.  “Your little affair was right on the edge of permissible behaviour for a naval officer.  Let me assure you that any court martial board would not choose to look at it kindly, particularly given the rest of your record.  They’ll be wondering if the problem with your midshipmen getting out of hand was because you were spending your off-duty hours with a lover!”

George flushed.  “I wasn't!”

“I believe you,” her uncle said.  “How many others will feel the same way?”

He cleared his throat and went on, before George could think of an answer.  “Now, your boyfriend is on the way to becoming a commissioned officer,” he added.  “And you, young lady, are going straight back to Vanguard.”

George blinked.  “Today?”

“If you wish,” her uncle said.  “But I believe your assigned slot is in two days.”

He smiled, rather dryly.  “The captain may welcome your enthusiasm, but you’ll probably disrupt her planned schedule,” he added.  “Stay in London, attend a few shows or visit the shops ... and keep your head down.”

“Yes, sir,” George said.

Her uncle sighed.  “You may not have noticed this, but your ‘career’ is on thin ice,” he warned, shortly.  “You did well during your first cruise, George, yet you had all sorts of problems during your second.  And while no official blame was attached to you, you ended up looking very bad.  I believe that most responsible captains would have qualms about allowing you to serve as First Middy again, at least until you grow up a little.  It might have been a mistake to allow you to enter the academy so early.”

“It was not,” George said.

She ground her teeth.  Becoming First Middy so early in her career had been a fluke.  If her reward for earlier service had come a couple of days later, Midshipman Simon Potter would have been First Middy.  And he’d known it ... she’d tried, as best as she could, but she knew she’d flubbed the test.  Promotion probably wasn't in the books for the next few years, if at all.

“It may have been,” her uncle said.  “I know - you were a prefect at school and did a good job, by all accounts.  But could you have done such a good job if you were younger than your peers?”

George said nothing.  But she suspected he was right.

Her uncle shrugged.  “Your current assignment serves two purposes,” he said.  “First, it is a step towards various other programs that are beyond your current need-to-know.  Second, it is a chance for you to redeem yourself after several potentially disastrous failures.  I don’t think I need to explain to you that you’re running out of chances.  You cannot go on like this without hitting a real iceberg.”

“Thank you,” she said, finally.

“I hope you do understand,” her uncle said.  “Do you?”

“It isn't fair,” George said.  “Sammy ... Sammy has had a whole string of affairs ...”

“No one cares about her affairs,” her uncle said.  His lips thinned with cold disdain.  “She is not exploiting her position to get men and women into her bed.”

“Neither am I,” George snapped.

“This is politics,” her uncle said.  “And in politics, perceptions matter so much more than reality.  A lie can get halfway across the solar system before the truth has even got its boots on.  You haven’t been abusing your position.  I know that - or rest assured we would be having a very different conversation.  But the rest of the United Kingdom?  They don’t know the truth.  You might be the seductress luring him into your bed.  Or he might be the gold-digging seducer bent on tying you to him so he can exploit your position.  Which version do you think will sell more tabloids?”

George flushed.  She knew the answer to that question.

“Keep your head down,” her uncle said, again.  “Go explore London, then return to your ship and hope that the story never truly breaks.  And I suggest” - he met her eyes - “that you do not discuss this with Peter Barton.  He met the requirements for the academy and that is all that matters.”

“Yes, sir,” George said, reluctantly.  “I ... I understand.”

“Good,” her uncle said.  “Hopefully, the next time I see you will be after a successful cruise.”

“I hope so too,” George said.  She was torn between thanking him and cursing him.  He was doing her a favour, but it didn't feel that way.  It felt more as though she’d been called on the carpet.  “I’ll see you when I return.”

Download The Rest From Amazon NOW!