Fear God and Dread Naught (17 page)

“You were quite light on her,” Mason said, once everyone else had left the compartment.  “It might be used against you, later.”

“I know,” Susan said.  “But what else can I do?”

She watched him leave the compartment, then sat back at her desk.  It was easy to say, with the benefit of hindsight, that Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam should have said or done something earlier.  That, Susan was sure, was the line any Board of Inquiry would take.  And yet, she understood just how many problems the poor girl had faced.  It was hard to blame her for not coming forward before the whole situation had blown up in her face ...

And now she has to be punished as an example to everyone else
, Susan thought.  She had grounds - if she wished to use them - to have all three of the midshipmen escorted to the nearest airlock and thrown out.  Certainly, a strict interpretation of the regs would have allowed for it, although she suspected that any post-voyage board of inquiry would have taken a dim view of the whole affair. 
And even though she’s getting off lightly, she won’t feel that way
.

She sighed, then reached for her terminal.  She’d log the records of the meeting - including Finch’s objection - and then write a detailed account of the affair for Henderson’s court martial, while her memories were still fresh.  Taking drugs was bad enough - she’d have to make sure that the doctor screened every last crewman before they reached Unity, just in case Henderson wasn't the only addict - but signing false statements into the files? 
That
was far worse.

And he’s brought a promising young officer down too
, she added, in the privacy of her own mind. 
And there’s nothing I can do to mitigate it either
.

***

George had been grounded more than once, as a child, and she’d been sent to Coventry as a schoolgirl, but being in the brig was far - far - worse.  There was nothing to do: no books to read, no movies to watch ... nothing to do, but worry about the future.  She lay on the bunk and counted to herself, wishing she’d been allowed to keep the wristcom.  At least she would have known just how long she’d spent in the tiny compartment.

The hatch hissed open, sharply.  “On your feet,” a voice growled.  It was a marine, but not one she recognised.  “The Captain wants to see you.”

George winced, but swung her legs over the side of the bunk and stood anyway.  The marine searched her again, thoroughly - she had no idea how he thought she’d sneaked something into the brig - and then took her by the arm, leading her out of the compartment and up towards Officer Country.  There were more crewmen in the corridors this time, she noted, wishing he wasn't gripping her upper arm so tightly.  Did he think she’d try to get away?

Her heart was pounding loudly by the time they stopped outside the captain’s hatch.  The marine tapped a panel, opening the hatch, then motioned for her to walk inside.  George hesitated - she knew she looked a mess - and then did as she was told.  It was unlikely, she kept telling herself, that she could get in worse trouble.  The captain could have her summarily stripped of rank and kicked off the ship, if she wished.  And it was quite possible that she deserved it.

“Midshipman Fitzwilliam, reporting,” she said, standing to attention.

The Captain studied her for a long cold moment.  George stayed ramrod straight, silently bidding farewell to her career.  The XO handled normal disciplinary matters ... if the captain was involved, it was
serious
.

“I have considered your case in great detail,” Captain Onarina said.  Her voice was icy, but there was a hint of ...
something
that gave George hope.  “On one hand, you are culpable for not taking the problem to superior authority before it blew up in your face.  Your decision, while understandable, ensured that the situation grew considerably out of control.”

George nodded, slowly.

“You have a choice,” the Captain added.  “You may submit yourself to NJP, from me, or you may remain in the brig until we return to Earth and a court martial is organised.  Choose.”

“I choose NJP,” George said. 

She didn't have to think about it.  The Captain might understand her position, but a court martial board definitely wouldn't.  She’d heard too much about them from her uncle and some of her other relatives.  And
they
would be hoping to nail her uncle as well as herself.

“Very well,” Captain Onarina said.  “You are retroactively beached; you’ll start again from scratch.  You will also be transferred to the shuttle crews until I see fit to order otherwise.  Do you understand me?”

George winced.  Losing all of her seniority was bad enough, but being trapped in the shuttlebay was worse ...

... But at least she wasn't being executed.  Or even imprisoned until the ship returned home.

“I understand, Captain,” she said.  “And thank you.”

The Captain met her eyes.  “There are moments,” she said, “when you have to decide if you should put your career - and your reputation - ahead of the good of the ship.  And the answer is always
no
; you should
never
put either ahead of the ship.  You were lucky, Midshipwoman; luckier, I think, than you realise.”

George swallowed, hard.  “I understand, Captain.”

“I’d be surprised if you did, at least completely,” the Captain said.  “Report to Lieutenant Fraser in Middy Country now, if you please; report to Major Andres tomorrow at 0900.  I believe he has some work for you.  Dismissed.”

George snapped out a salute, then turned and walked out of the office.  Her legs sagged almost as soon as the hatch closed, despite the hulking presence of the marine.  She had been stripped of seniority, she had been shunted out of command track ...

... And it looked as though Fraser had returned to the wardroom.  He was going to
love
her.

It could be worse
, she told herself.  Captain Onarina had been right.  She
had
been lucky, very lucky. 
You could be waiting in the brig for a court martial.

Chapter Seventeen

“We have four days to go before we reach Unity,” Henry said.  “Are you sure this will work?”

“It
should
work,” Doctor Song said.  She tapped the computer console thoughtfully.  “I’m sure they will
hear
the message.”

Henry scowled.  “But will they reply?”

He looked down at the altered First Contact package and sighed.  For something that had had some of the finest minds in the Human Sphere working on it, the First Contact package had been largely useless.  The Tadpoles hadn’t bothered to respond to signals, while the Vesy had been taught English and Russian by the Russians who’d discovered them.  And the newcomers, whoever they were, hadn't replied either.  There was no way to know if they were even
hearing
the signals.

“They can’t be
that
alien,” Doctor Song said.  “They can build starships.  What sort of mentality can do that and still be completely alien?”

Henry shrugged.  “There are humans who do insane and irrational things just for shits and giggles,” he said, tiredly.  “And they are
human
.  The Tadpoles can still surprise and horrify us after ten years of contact.”

“We have an updated communications package,” Doctor Song said, firmly.  “They should be capable of receiving it and equally capable of understanding and replying.  Given a few days, we should be able to build up a shared language.  Discussing philosophy may take longer, of course.”

“Of course,” Henry agreed.  The Tadpoles hadn't been able to make sense of humanity’s religions - and humans had been equally perplexed by
their
religions.  If, of course, they
were
religions.  The xenospecialists weren't sure how accurate the translations actually were, if they were accurate at all.  “As long as we can discuss peace, I’m sure the captain will be happy.”

He nodded to the doctor, then turned and strode out of the compartment.  The mood had darkened on the battleship as she proceeded inexorably towards the war front, her crews running double shifts as they watched for signs of alien contact.  Henry had heard, during one of his frequent dinners with the captain, that the crew had been running training exercises, working desperately to prepare for the next encounter.  And yet, it was hard to be
sure
what they would face.  The latest update - gleaned from a Tadpole freighter heading in the opposite direction - insisted that Unity had not been attacked, but the update was still two weeks out of date.

And we don’t even know if they can talk to us
, he thought. 
They may not be capable of talking to us.

It seemed absurd, all the xenospecialists agreed.  They were facing two races, not one.  Henry doubted the aliens could agree on dinner, let alone put together a combined operation, without a shared language.  Even if one of the alien races was the master and the other the slave, the masters would still need to tell the slaves what they wanted them to do.  There was just too much room for misunderstandings.

He rubbed his forehead as he entered his cabin and made his way over to the desk.  The research teams had mined human history extensively, then turned their attention to studying science-fiction and fantasy from the pre-space era.  There had been alien races that were spider-like, monstrous bugs utterly beyond human comprehension ... and races that had found radio waves nothing but pure torture.  They’d opened fire on the assumption that the other side had fired first - and, technically, they’d been correct.  But as neat as the idea was, Henry found it hard to believe.  There was no shortage of radio noise in space.

We may not know anything until we actually capture a live alien
, he thought. 
And then we may have to work hard to get answers out of him
.

He sat down at the desk and checked the reports from his staff.  They were ready for the alien, when - if - the marines managed to capture one.  Or so they thought.  Aliens were not human, after all.  The first prisoners captured during the First Interstellar War had nearly been killed through sheer ignorance, despite some of the brightest minds humanity had produced studying them.  It was galling to realise that the Tadpoles had handled human prisoners - including Henry himself - better than humanity had handled their prisoners, but they’d had longer to prepare.  And plenty of data about humanity in its natural habitat.

Four days
, he told himself, as he closed the terminal. 
And then we can begin
.

He keyed a switch, bringing up the record function.  “It’s been three days since I recorded a message for you,” he said.  He’d started trying to record individual messages for each of his children separately, but he hadn't had the time to keep it up.  “We are still on the way, I’m afraid.  Very little has happened since we passed that Tadpole ship ...”

There were officers, Henry knew, who dreaded the day that human ingenuity finally cracked the secret of transmitting FTL messages.  Whitehall - and JHQ - would be looking over their shoulders all the time, micromanaging operations and turning the officers into little more than puppets.  And he could see their point.  But he would have sold his soul for a way to send messages back home instantly, even if he couldn't hold a real-time conversation with his wife and daughters.  He’d promised them, when they were born, that they wouldn't have to endure the twisted household he recalled from his childhood.  Their father would treat them as
children
, not prize pigs on display.

“I hope to see you all soon,” he concluded, although he knew it wasn't going to happen.  Even if he took ship back to Earth at once, he wouldn't get there for at least two months.  “And I love you all very much.”

He turned off the recording, then sent the message into the storage node.  It would wait there until a starship returned to Earth, whereupon it would be uploaded into the military network and passed on to its destination.  The censors would probably insist on having a look at it - the damnable bastards - but he’d said nothing they could find objectionable.  It was just a simple recording from a father to his children.

And when I get home
, he promised himself,
I’ll take them right back to Tadpole Prime
.

But, deep inside, he knew it was a promise he might not be able to keep.

***

It wasn't the first time George had worked on the shuttles - midshipmen were expected to learn how to fly and maintain the craft along with their other duties - yet it felt different when it was a punishment.  The Senior Chief didn't treat her any differently, but his crewmen eyed her when they thought she wasn't looking, as if her disgrace would rub off.  George did her work without complaint, returned to Middy Country to sleep in her bunk and then went back to work.  She was honestly unsure if she should be relieved or not, even though she knew the entire affair would look very bad in her personal file.

“Hey,” Fraser called, as she stepped into Middy Country.  “Feeling better?”

George shrugged, expressively.  Putting a lieutenant into Middy Country was a clear statement that higher authority felt that the middies couldn't handle their own problems, even through both Henderson and Felicity were in the brig.  But it did have its advantages.  She’d overheard Fraser’s discussion with Potter that, miraculously, had turned the younger man into a decent officer.  She hadn't known it was possible to deliver a dressing down in such an icy tone.  And there hadn't been any problems since then.

“A little, sir,” she said.  Maintaining the shuttlecraft wasn't
bad
, but it was boring.  The varied duties of a midshipwoman on command track were far more interesting.  “How are you?”

“I’ve been better,” Fraser said.  He motioned for her to follow him through the hatch.  “You want to come shoot off a few rounds?”

George would have honestly preferred to climb into her bunk and go to sleep, but she had the feeling that it wasn't an invitation she could refuse.  Fraser hadn't spoken
much
to her, since he’d taken the topmost bunk in the wardroom, yet she would have been surprised if part of him wasn't hopping mad.  He'd worked hard to get promoted
out
of Middy Country.  She had half-expected him to pile all the shit duties on her as punishment for getting him tossed
back
into Middy Country.  But he hadn't done anything of the sort.

She followed him through the corridors, fighting down a yawn.  Potter wasn't talking to her, but Paula had let slip that both of the remaining midshipmen were being overworked.  George understood, all too well.  Everything Henderson had touched before his arrest had to be checked and rechecked, while the ship had been thoroughly searched for more drug tablets and any other surprises.  The marines had found several stills, she’d heard, and a small collection of pornography, but no more drugs.  George didn't know if she should be relieved or suspicious that something had been missed. 
Vanguard
was easily large enough to conceal a few hundred tablets from all, but a very determined search.

“I hope you remember how to shoot,” Fraser said, as they entered the shooting range.  “It’s been too long.”

George nodded as she requested a pistol from the range safety officer, then checked it carefully.  She wasn't sure what would happen to
her
if she was caught with the pink bullet - a marine tradition to teach new recruits how to keep their weapons safe - but she was sure Fraser would find a way to make her life miserable.  She’d missed shooting and training with him, more than she cared to admit.  Fraser was a harsh son of a bitch - she’d spent far too long hating and fearing him - but he
was
a good teacher.

“I think I remember the basics,” she said, wryly.  “Are we going to have another competition?”

Fraser rolled his eyes.  “Not unless you’ve somehow managed to get better without touching a loaded weapon for the past month,” he said, sardonically.  “Unless you have a particularly unpleasant forfeit in mind, I suppose.”

George coloured.  She'd challenged Fraser to a shooting match, four weeks after he’d started to show her how to build on her skills.  He’d wiped the deck with her and he’d made it look easy.  In hindsight, betting toilet cleaning duties for the next week had been a dreadful mistake.  She wasn't a bad shot, thanks to his supervision, but she was nowhere near his match.

“Not really,” she said.  She paused as a thought occurred to her.  “But I
could
bet a chocolate bar on it, if you want.”

“It would feel like a steal,” Fraser said.  “But if you want, I shall reluctantly accept.”

He led the way into the range, then tapped a switch on the bulkhead.  A number of holographic targets flickered to life in the semi-darkness, moving backwards and forwards like living people.  Someone - probably one of the marines - had painted the targets to resemble the new aliens, fox-like teeth bared as they faced the humans.  George stepped forward at his nod, then slotted the magazine into her pistol and opened fire.  Her hit counter started to mount up as she ran through the first set of bullets, reloaded and opened fire again.

“Not bad,” Fraser said, when she had finished.  “Can I have a go?”

George stepped aside as Fraser reset the range, then opened fire.  He was still quicker than her, firing off bullets in a steady stream and then reloading the pistol in one smooth motion that still left her breathless.  She’d tried to load her pistol just as quickly, but it had always ended with her dropping something or accidentally jamming the weapon.  Fraser hadn't been amused.

“I think I win,” Fraser said, finally.  “I hit forty-seven aliens to your twenty-two.”

“We haven’t finished,” George objected.  She glanced at him.  “How accurate are these simulations, anyway?”

Fraser shrugged.  “They’re not,” he said.  “You should try the marine suite if you want
realism
.  They’ve been letting crewmen run through their tactical simulations for a couple of pounds a head.”

George glanced at him.  “Isn't that against regs?”

“Depends how you look at it,” Fraser said.  “Major Andres appears to believe that it’s good for the spacers to see how the groundpounders do their work.”