Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7) Page 7
She watched Fraser and Nathan leave the room, then opened her holdall and emptied it out onto the bunk. Her two spare uniforms were easy enough to hang up in the locker, but it was harder to sort out her underwear and the handful of personal effects she’d brought with her until she realised she was meant to just leave them on the bottom. It didn't strike her as being very efficient, but naval uniforms were designed to be durable as well as uncomfortable. She slotted a photograph of her parents and sister into the locker door, then reached for the chocolate on the bunk, just as the hatch reopened.
“Ah, chocolate,” Fraser said. “Put it in the general stash.”
George stared at him. “I bought it ...”
“And now it’s in the general stash,” Fraser said. He inspected her locker, his eyes darkening at something. “Anything sent to us from Earth goes into the general stash. We’ll share it out later today.”
He smiled at her shocked expression. “Come with me,” he ordered. “We’ll give Bosworth his chance to open his bag and hide his stash.”
“Yes, sir,” George said. There was no point in arguing, she suspected. “Where are we going?”
Fraser led her through the hatch, down the corridor and into a small compartment. A table, chair and terminal sat, perched against the far corner; the remainder of the room was barren, completely bare. There weren’t even any pictures on the bulkheads. The hatch hissed closed behind them; Fraser caught her, spun her around and pushed her against the bulkhead. She tensed, unsure if she should try to fight or not, as he glowered down at her. Up close, all alone, he was far more intimidating. She would have thought that was impossible.
“I want you to understand something,” he growled. “Your family name means nothing on this ship. I don’t give a damn if you’re the heir to the Barony of Cockatrice or the next in line to inherit Buckingham Palace. Your name means nothing here. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” George stammered.
“I am the first middy,” Fraser said. He loomed over her, far too close for comfort. “That means you do as I say, whatever it is. I am god, as far as you are concerned. I don’t give a shit if you like me or not. My job is ensuring you fit into the crew before you make a typical maggot mistake and get someone killed. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” George managed.
“You are young, absurdly young,” Fraser added. “Your family probably saw to it that you entered the academy early, even though the recruiters prefer prospective cadets to complete their basic schooling and enter the academy at eighteen. Don’t expect any respect from me, or any of the other midshipmen, until you earn it. Do you understand me?”
George merely nodded, fighting to keep her legs from trembling. Her uncle had never told her about this, never implied that she would be intimidated by the first middy. And yet, some of the stories she’d read from the wet-navy era had been far worse. Midshipmen could be whipped to a bloody pulp by their superiors, if their superiors were having a bad day.
“If I catch you being derelict in your duties, or using your family name as a weapon, I will administer punishment duty,” Fraser said. “Space is unforgiving, Fitzwilliam; this isn't Rustbucket, where the worst that can happen is you getting roundly mocked by your peers or kicked out for gross stupidity. A mistake here ... well, you’ll be lucky if all that happens is you meet the wrong end of my fists.”
He stepped backwards. “Did you manage to unpack everything before I collected you?”
“Yes, sir,” George said. It was hard, so hard, to keep her voice level, but she managed it. “I have everything put away, save for the chocolate.”
“And that’s going to be shared out tonight,” Fraser said. “We’re all in this together, Fitzwilliam. I won’t tolerate anything that smacks of elitism among the middies. Elitism breeds resentment.”
George blinked. “Like one of us being the first middy?”
“I’m the senior midshipman,” Fraser said, simply. Oddly, he didn't seem inclined to bite her head off for cheek. “I didn't get this post through connections, merely through endurance.”
“Yes, sir,” George said.
Fraser nodded. “This room - and the privacy tubes - are the only places where we get any actual privacy,” he said. He nodded to the terminal. “You’ll have a time slot each day to use the terminal to write messages and suchlike, if you have the chance to actually use it. You can trade personal time with the other middies, if you wish, but you’re not allowed to use the terminal outside your designated slot. Unless, of course, you’re studying for exams. Those take priority.”
He smiled, rather coldly. “Any questions?”
George studied him for a long moment. “Is there anything else I need to know?”
“Plenty,” Fraser said. His smile turned into a leer. “Once the ship is underway, we’ll give you the formal welcoming ceremony. After that, you’ll be one of us ... assuming, of course, you survive.”
He turned and strode out of the hatch. George stared after him, feeling her thoughts whirling in confusion. No one had told her anything about this. She wondered, briefly, if she should send a message to her family, just to ask what was going on, but she knew it would be counted as whining. Her uncle had made it very clear, when he’d told her that she’d been accepted at the academy, that he expected her to earn her rank on her own merits. There was no way he’d do anything about her minor problems. He’d been in the middle of a war.
And he was a midshipman too, she thought, grimly. He would have gone through worse before being assigned to Ark Royal.
She pushed the thought aside - she’d been warned, after all, that shipboard life could be difficult even when it wasn't dangerous - and followed Fraser back into the middy cabin, where Nathan was waiting for her. The sleeping midshipman was awake, chatting quietly with Nathan; he shut up, at once, when Fraser glowered at him. George nodded politely to him, then stepped back to allow Fraser to lead them both out of the compartment. She knew she’d have a chance for formal introductions soon enough.
“Luckily, his duty slot starts in an hour,” Fraser commented, as soon as the hatch had hissed shut. “Don’t be late for your duty slots; try to be there five minutes before you’re actually meant to be there. The officer commanding will not be pleased; you’ll be lucky if you’re spending the next month cleaning the toilets with your own toothbrushes. In your case, you’ll be tried and tested on the consoles before they let you take a formal duty slot, but don’t treat it as anything other than a serious assignment. A bad report from one of the OCs could ruin your career at this early stage.”
George nodded. Her uncle had told her the same thing.
“You’re both on the day shift until we get you bedded in,” Fraser continued. “Get out of your bunks at eight, have a shower, grab something to eat and report to the OC at nine; you’ll have a full schedule waiting for you in your mailboxes. You’ll get a break for lunch, probably around one or two, then another duty slot until five or six. After that, you’re expected to do at least an hour in the gym every day. Make sure you have a more experienced midshipman with you until you’re fully checked out on the equipment.”
Nathan coughed. “Isn't it the same as the academy’s equipment?”
“Yes, but I want you to be fully checked out before you try to use it without a spotter,” Fraser said. “Certain machines really shouldn't be used without a spotter in any case, but we don’t have the manpower to handle it. Try and see if there’s someone else in the area before you start exercising.”
George kept her thoughts to herself as Fraser showed them around a handful of compartments; the wardroom, serving food and drink to the crew; the bridge, the nerve centre of the giant battleship; Main Engineering, where the engineering crew kept the ship going; the tactical compartment, where she hoped she’d be working ... they were starting to blur together in her head as they stopped outside one final hatch, the hatch to sickbay. A large red cross had been painted on the white airlock.
“I think so, sir,” George said. She had her reader; she could download an updated deck plan, if necessary. “If we can’t, we’ll just ask a passer-by.”
“How very feminine,” Fraser sneered. His voice lowered. “And you’d be wise not to listen to that helpful passer-by, particularly when the ship is in a holding orbit. Randy was sent halfway to Main Engineering before he realised that the helpful crewman was anything but.”
He shrugged. “Once you return, I’ll introduce you to the other midshipmen and show you how to download your schedules,” he added. “And then we can go through some basic lessons before you get some sleep.”
George watched him go, then glanced at Nathan. “What did he say to you?”
“When we were alone?” Nathan asked. “He just told me that I’d be expected to work hard if I wanted to be cleared for shipboard duty. Oh, and we are apparently going to be welcomed onboard the ship formally, once we leave orbit.”
“Oh,” George said. It didn't sound as though Fraser had made any attempt to intimidate Nathan. But then, Nathan didn't come from aristocratic stock. His family might have a tradition of naval service, but it was very low-key. “What do you think they have in mind?”
“Probably nothing good,” Nathan said. “My father never talked about his time as a midshipman.”
George nodded. Her uncle hadn't said much about his time as a midshipman either. He was perhaps the most famous officer alive, save only for John Naiser, but he hadn't become famous as a midshipman. And John Naiser had never been a midshipman. Midshipmen were really nothing more than caterpillars, who might become a butterfly sometime in the far-off future. A successful naval officer wouldn’t want to look back at his early years.
She sighed, then keyed the hatch. There was no point in trying to escape. It had been made clear to them, back at the academy, that failing to attend regular medical check-ups could lead to relief from duty, if the doctor had reason to believe they were concealing a dangerous medical condition. The hatch hissed open, revealing a giant sickbay. Thankfully, all of the beds within eyesight were empty.
We’re near Earth, she told herself. Any accidents will be taking place down on the surface.
“Ah, new midshipmen,” a cultured voice said. George turned to see a young man wearing a medical tunic emerging from a side door. His office, she guessed. “I’m Doctor Chung, Adam Chung. Welcome onboard.”
“Thank you, sir,” George said. A doctor wasn't technically in the chain of command - it struck her, suddenly, that she would have to die before Doctor Chung could assume command - but it was wise to treat him as a superior officer. “Our medical records should have been forwarded to you.”
“They were,” Chung assured them. “But I prefer to take baseline readings myself.”
He smiled, cheerfully. “Who’s first?”
Chapter Seven
The midshipmen, Susan noted, looked like rabbits caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.
She kept her expression blank as the captain droned on, despite her amusement. Captain Blake had kept his promise - or his threat - to host a dinner party for the newcomers, inviting Susan, both new midshipmen and a handful of his older officers. The food had been excellent, the wine a pleasant compliment to the meal - although she’d been quick to order the stewards to make sure the midshipmen didn’t get more than a single glass each - but the conversation had been minimal. She couldn't help recalling some of the more awkward dance and etiquette lessons of her youth, where boys and girls had stumbled around awkwardly rather than learning the ropes.
“And so I welcome you to the most powerful ship in the Royal Navy,” Captain Blake finished. It was customary for the captain to give a speech, true, but not one that lasted longer than five minutes. “And I trust you will serve her faithfully.”
He sat down, then nodded to Susan, who rose and lifted her glass. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said. “I give you King Charles, Princess Elizabeth and the United Kingdom of Great Britain.”
She winced inwardly as the toast was echoed back by the small crowd of guests. If it had been up to her, more guests would have been invited and the tables would have been spread out, allowing the junior officers to chat without the disapproving presence of their seniors, while she and Mason could talk to Captain Blake. Instead, there were two tables, parked far too close together. If Vanguard had been hosting a diplomatic dinner, she knew, Captain Blake would have a great deal of explaining to do the following morning. It would be difficult for anyone to have a private conversation without everyone overhearing.
“You have done well, filling Commander Bothell’s shoes,” Captain Blake said, distracting Susan from her thoughts. “I didn’t expect so much when I heard you were coming.”
“Thank you, sir,” Susan said. It hadn't been hard, once she’d gotten over the surprise. The ship’s various departments had been organised perfectly, in line with the very latest naval regulations. Commander Bothell hadn't been a little OCD, he’d been anal. “It’s a fascinating challenge, but I think I’m getting the hang of it.”
“Very good, very good,” Captain Blake said. “Do you feel we can depart Sol as planned?”
“Yes, sir,” Susan said. “We should have no trouble making our scheduled departure date.”
She sighed, inwardly. Commander Bothell had done a very good job. Vanguard had taken on thirty new crew, including the two new midshipmen, but her various departments were already assimilating them nicely. There was nothing wrong with any of the senior crew, save for the captain himself. He’d spent the last few days either watching over her shoulder or leaving her completely on her own. If it hadn’t been for that, she would have honestly been delighted with the state of affairs on Vanguard.
“Then I will inform the Admiralty that we will depart on schedule,” Blake said. “The war games will not wait for us, unfortunately. We’re going to be testing ourselves against the Yanks and they’re not likely to make any foolish mistakes.”
“I hear their planned battleships are bigger than ours,” Susan said. “Are we going to be testing ourselves against one of them?”
“Only against a fleet carrier or two,” Blake said. “The details haven’t been set in stone.”
Susan nodded. It wasn't easy to assemble over thirty starships from two different nations in a single system for war games, even if the two nations were closely allied. Something might pop up that would require one or more of the ships to be diverted at short notice or simply force the war games to be cancelled. It would have been a great deal easier to hold the war games in the Sol System, but everyone else - up to and including the Tadpoles - would have been able to watch and take notes.
Not that they won’t be able to take notes now, she thought, wryly. They just have to work harder to spy on us.
“I wouldn't bet good money on a fleet carrier standing against our firepower,” Blake said, darkly. “The Yank carriers were just bigger targets during the war.”
“They’ve built their own version of the Theodore Smith-class fleet carriers now, sir,” Susan reminded him. “Those ships have quite heavy armour ...”
“Not enough,” Blake said. “Fleet carriers have too many vulnerable points. And even if they didn’t, our cannons are rated to burn through anything. They’d be fools to let us come within weapons range.”
“And they’d find it hard to outrun us,” Susan agreed. “Their only real hope would be slowing us down with their starfighters.”
She kept her face blank as the stewards appeared, carrying great trays of spotted dick, sticky toffee pudding and real fresh cream, shipped directly from Earth or one of the lunar dairy farms. The discussion might have been interesting, it might even have been fun, but there was something
about the way the captain spoke that bothered her. As if ... he was reciting lines from memory, rather than actually thinking before he spoke.
“Their missiles could do us some real damage,” she said, carefully. “If they took out a couple of our drive compartments ...”
“The point defence will keep them back,” Captain Blake said. He took a spoonful of pudding, then looked at her. “What do you make of the new middies? Particularly the girl?”
I think I’m glad you’re not the one who has to work with her, Susan thought. It wouldn't be easy for the girl, not when her family was both a blessing and a curse. She had the nasty feeling the captain would practically have fawned on her, just in the hopes of pleasing her uncle. And I notice you changed the subject very quickly.
“They look to be good kids,” she said. “It’ll take them a while to get rid of that baby fat and turn into decent officers, but they’ll make it.”