Ark Royal

Chapter Thirty-Five

James studied the display, feeling cold ice congealing around his heart.

The realities of the tramline network were well-understood, he knew. Without a tramline, travel from star to star was impossible. God knew that at least one sublight colony venture had deliberately aimed for a star that was believed to have no tramlines, putting six light years between them and the closest human world. But every other star system reached by humanity had at least one tramline. Here, through, they had come to the end of the line.

He sucked in a breath as the alien battlecruiser made her appearance, sitting on top of the tramline and showing no sign of budging. Once again, thankfully, the aliens had prepared for an ambush that hadn’t been prepared, giving the human ship time to hide. Ark Royal would remain undetected as long as she remained still, he knew, particularly since the aliens didn't seem to be actually looking for her. But they wouldn't be able to re-enter the tramline at a different point without altering course radically enough to risk detection… and even if they did, they’d only jump back to Alien-Two. No, they were trapped… and the aliens would be gathering the force to destroy them.

A note blinked up on his display. Someone — Midshipwomen Lopez — was asking for a private conversation. That was rare, particularly in the middle of a battle. Alarmed, unsure of why he was alarmed, James reached for his earpiece and voder, pressing one into his ear and the other against his throat. It had been years since he had used either of the pieces of equipment, but his body remembered how to use them.

“Sir, it’s the Captain,” the young woman said. James frowned in puzzlement, then recalled that he’d asked her to keep a subtle eye on her commander. “He just left the bridge.”

James felt his brow furrow in alarm. He'd known Captains who were tyrants and Captains who were too soft, but he’d never known a Captain who had abandoned his bridge when his starship was in deadly danger. Whatever else could be said about Captain Smith, he’d definitely had the same worth ethnic. It had been hard enough to convince the Captain to take a nap when the alien battlecruiser had been maintaining her distance. But why would he leave the bridge now?

“I see,” he subvocalised. He didn't dare speak out loud. God alone knew what the CIC’s officers would think if they heard him. “Who’s in command now?”

Midshipwomen Lopez spluttered. “You, I think,” she said. “But he passed bridge command over to Commander Farley…”

James felt a shiver run down his spine. Something was definitely wrong. Traditionally, the officer on the bridge held command, even if he was outranked by someone elsewhere on the ship. Captain Smith should have called James himself to the bridge or at least informed him that someone else would be holding formal command, if James couldn't leave the CIC…

“Inform Commander Farley that he is still in command, but he is to alert me if the situation changes,” James said, pulling up the personnel display. Ark Royal automatically tracked and logged the locations of everyone on the ship, including the aliens and their former captives, snug in their secure quarters. The Captain wasn't in his office, but his cabin. “I will deal with the situation.”

“But…”

“I will deal with the situation,” James repeated. The young woman had done enough — more than enough. No matter what had happened, her career wouldn't survive if the Admiralty found out what she’d done. “Remain on the bridge.”

He passed CIC command over to his second, took one final look at the tactical display — the alien ship was still holding position, mocking them — and hurried out of the CIC.

Ted entered his cabin, closed and locked the hatch behind him and sat down on the sofa, feeling absolute despair working its way through his mind. He’d failed; he’d failed everyone from the First Space Lord to the lowliest crewman on his ship. The aliens had them trapped now, holding in place and waiting for the force they needed to smash Ark Royal like a bug. Ted had no illusions. The aliens knew his ship now; they knew what they needed to destroy her. When they came, it would be the final battle.

He cursed his own stubbornness as he stared down at the deck. If he’d been thinking, he would have gracefully accepted the First Space Lord’s attempt to remove him from starship command. God knew there were few officers who had served on armoured carriers, let alone spent so long improvising improvements to the original design. Ted could have worked in the planning office, assisting the designers to prepare updated designs for carriers and battleships that would have combined modern technology and older systems to create powerful warships. Or he could have found a place in the Admiralty, doing paperwork to allow other — more capable — officers to take command.

But no, he’d had to keep his starship. He’d had to keep command.

He pulled himself to his feet and stumbled over towards the safe in the bulkhead, pressing his hand against the sensor so it could read the implant buried within his palm. It clicked open, revealing ten bottles of expensive alcohol. He'd considered disposing of them when he’d realised that Ark Royal was going back into active service, but he hadn't been able to convince himself to take the plunge. Maybe he would have served them at a dinner for his fellow commanders — he damned himself, silently, for not speaking more with them — if they hadn't all died because of his mistakes. Ark Royal had only escaped because the European frigates had sacrificed themselves…

Their sacrifice was in vain, he told himself, as he picked up a bottle at random. Fancy wine, he noted, from the Picard Vineyards on Mars. Who would have thought that humanity’s first and last full-scale experiment with terraforming would have produced a modified grape that could be made into an elegant wine? Not that Ted really cared about the details, he had to admit, or the pretensions harboured by wine snobs. All he really cared about was the alcoholic content, the ability to blot out his mind and escape the pain. He would have called the Chief Engineer and ordered rotgut if Anderson hadn't been so busy.

Ted poured himself a glass, then took a long swig. The wine tasted fruity on his tongue, leaving a pleasant trail of fire as it ran down his throat and into his stomach. It had been months since he’d touched a drop, he realised, as he felt his head start to spin. There was no longer any need to drink heavily in order to achieve drunkenness. His fingers twitched, dropping the glass on the deck. Cursing, Ted picked up the bottle and put it to his lips.

He felt a flicker of guilt as he felt the cold glass touching his bare flesh. The crew needed him, he knew, yet he was useless. They would be better off with Commander Fitzwilliam or even an untrained newcomer from the Academy, not a drunkard like himself. Fitzwilliam had proved himself, in the end, to be more than just a well-born little bastard who had thought his connections would prove sufficient to take command of a starship. He’d make the Royal Navy proud.

Or he would, Ted considered, if he ever made it home.

Bracing himself, he took another long swig.

The buzzer sounded, but he ignored it. Let someone else worry for once.

The Captain’s quarters were inviolate, James knew, as he came to a halt outside the hatch. A press of the buzzer brought no response. He hesitated, unsure of what to do. Technically, he could relieve the Captain of command… but he was surprised to discover that he didn't want to assert his authority. It would destroy his career, no matter how many friends and family he had in the Admiralty, yet that wasn't what was bothering him. He'd come to respect Captain Smith too much to want to destroy his career too.

He hesitated, then reached into his pocket and produced a standard multitool. One of the less standard classes at the Academy had shown the cadets how to bypass certain systems, acknowledging that sometimes the non-standard approach was necessary. James flipped open the panel beside the hatch, found the locking system and carefully removed it from operation. The hatch clicked as it unlocked itself, but didn't open. James cursed his decision to come alone as he pushed the door open, then squeezed through the gap into the Captain’s cabin. Inside, the Captain was sitting on the sofa, halfway to drunkenness.

James swore out loud as he saw the bottle in the Captain’s hand, torn between being impressed and being horrified. He’d never heard of anyone drunk on wine from Mars before, but that was because it was hideously expensive, even by aristocratic standards. James had tasted a small glass of it once, years ago, and had been left with the impression that it was grossly overrated. He certainly hadn't drunk enough of it to affect his feelings. Putting the memories aside, he walked over to the Captain, pulled the bottle out of his hand and placed it on the side table. The Captain looked up at him, blearily.

His mouth opened, but his lips worked incoherently for a few minutes before he managed to produce a few words. “Piss off.”

“No,” James said.

“Piss off,” the Captain repeated. His voice sounded stronger this time, suggesting he wasn't as drunk as he looked. “That’s an order, mister.”

James hesitated, staring down at the wreck his commanding officer had become. The part of him that was ambitious knew that he could go to the bridge and claim command — and no one would be able to dispute it. Even if they did, what could they do? Back home, if they made it home, even the most rule-bound Admiral wouldn't object to James relieving his commanding officer for drunkenness in the face of the enemy. The Captain could be beached; hell, James knew that Uncle Winchester would be able to find a place for him. It wouldn't be the end of his life…

But he didn't want to throw the Captain to the wolves. Captain Smith had done well, first in building up a crew and then in leading it into battle against the aliens. He was, by any standard, the most effective naval officer the war had yet produced. Six months ago, he had merely been a drunkard James had aimed to remove from his post. Now… now he was a friend. They’d learned to work together as partners.

He owed the Captain.

Duty warred with loyalty in his head. Duty demanded that he relieve the Captain of command at once, the sooner the better. Loyalty demanded that he assist the Captain in overcoming his demons so he could resume command of his ship. James hesitated, then stood up and walked into the washroom. Inside, he turned the shower on, lowered the water’s temperature until it was just above freezing, then walked back to where the Captain was sprawling on the sofa. Before the older man could muster an objection, James pulled him to his feet, half-dragged him into the shower and shoved his head under the water.

The Captain spluttered with anger, producing a string of swearwords so vile that James could only listen, impressed. He'd only ever heard one other person swear like that, an old family friend who’d served in the Royal Navy for years before leaving under a cloud. In hindsight, James realised that his family’s friend had had problems with drinking too. Pushing the thought aside, he helped the Captain out of the shower and reached for a towel. The Captain snatched it from his hands and started to dry himself.

James hesitated, then stepped back into the main cabin and found the collection of alcohol. It was oddly impressive, given that the Captain wouldn't have drawn that large a salary while he remained in the Royal Navy. Even his knighthood had come with his promotion to Commodore, rather than being awarded for heroism. Absently, he wondered why the Captain hadn't been granted further honours after the first encounter with the aliens, then dismissed the thought. While the Captain dried himself, he scooped up the bottles, dumped them into a bag and placed them outside the cabin. They could be concealed in his cabin until Ark Royal returned to Earth.

And what, a nasty voice at the back of his mind asked, will you do when the Captain orders you to return them?

He had no answer.

Ted rubbed his wet uniform with the towel, then gave it up as a bad job and removed his jacket and shirt completely. The XO had shoved him into the shower fully clothed… absently, Ted found himself wondering just what regulation had been broken by wetting the Captain’s uniform. Wasn't there something about not tampering with the Captain’s dignity?

He shook his head, sourly. The water had done an effective job of sobering him up, leaving him grimly aware of just how badly he'd played the fool. If he had realised that the alcohol he'd consumed before the call to war had worked its way out of his system, he might have realised that he couldn't drink freely any longer. And to think he was meant to be in command! What a fool he'd been, he told himself. How could he really blame the XO for considering relieving him of command?

Maybe he should relieve himself, part of his mind suggested. But regulations, which declined to offer many acceptable reasons for relieving a commanding officer, flatly forbade the commanding officer from surrendering command while underway. He could put the XO or another officer on the bridge, in position to act rapidly if necessary, but he could never give them the full weight of his authority. No matter what he did, he — Captain Sir Theodore Smith — was the commanding officer, master under God. He could not shirk that responsibility for a second time.

He walked back into the main room and scooped up a dressing gown, pulling it on to cover his bare chest. The XO was seated in one of the chairs, a cup of steaming coffee in front of him. Another was positioned on Ted’s desk, waiting for him. Ted wasn't fond of coffee — he strongly preferred tea — but he had to admit that it would be good for him. Sitting down, he wondered who’d made it — and what they knew about his situation.

“I made it,” Fitzwilliam said, answering the unspoken question. “No one else has come here… ah, I think I broke your door.”

Ted smiled at the sudden uncertainty in his XO’s voice, then glanced over at the hatch. It was pinned open, barely wide enough to allow someone as skinny as Fitzwilliam to slip through the gap. He shook his head in droll amusement; apart from himself, only Midshipwoman Lopez had access to his cabin. It had never occurred to him that the XO would need to enter too without breaking the locks. He’d acquired too many bad habits when his ship had been drifting at anchor, with no hope of ever returning to active service.

“Yes, you did,” he said. He couldn't help a sudden laugh. Under the circumstances, a broken door was the least of their worries. “A court-martial offense if I ever saw one.”

He hesitated, looking at the younger man's uncertain face. “I’m sorry,” he said, quietly. He found himself struggling for words, then realised he was trying to excuse the inexcusable. It would be better to take his punishment like a man, except there was no one who could punish him. “Thank you.”

Commander Fitzwilliam seemed to understand, thankfully. Ted cursed himself under his breath, wondering just how much of the younger man’s respect he’d lost when he’d tried to crawl back into a bottle. There was no point in deluding himself, he told himself savagely. He’d probably lost all of it. The belief that he’d led his crew into a trap didn't excuse abandoning them now…

He took a sip of his coffee, weighing up the options. Getting back through the tramline would mean confronting the alien battlecruiser… and it would be a very close-run thing. He didn't have the starfighter numbers to take her down without closing to engagement range, which would expose his carrier’s hull to her plasma cannons. One shot, assuming the analysts were right, would be enough to melt the carrier’s armour and ravage her innards. The second would blow them apart…

No, he thought. We cannot allow them to close to point-blank range.

Mass driver projectiles would work, he knew, if they succeeded in scoring a hit. Maybe they could snipe at the battlecruiser. But the alien battlecruiser was watching for incoming projectiles, he was sure. They might just give away their position for nothing. And, even if they did manage to sneak around the battlecruiser and enter the tramline, they’d still have to crawl past Alien-Two, then Alien-One. They would encounter the alien reinforcements on their way.

And there was no hope of modifying their Puller Drive to work like an alien drive…

A thought occurred to him. For a moment, he dismissed it as the last vestiges of the alcohol, then he started to take it seriously. It was insane, but it might just be workable. And besides, they were trapped. Thinking inside the box would only lead to a suicidal direct confrontation with the alien ship. But thinking outside it…

He swallowed the rest of his coffee, then jumped to his feet. “Come on,” he said. The XO stood up, looking confused. “We have an operation to plan.”