Fear God and Dread Naught (4 page)

“I see,” Henry said.  He’d heard a great deal about combat drugs, but all of them had dangerous drawbacks that rendered them unsuitable for deployment.  A soldier might be boosted for a short period, yet afterwards he’d be lucky to survive long enough to reach medical treatment.  “How long will the boost last?”

“Probably no more than thirty minutes, which may be a very conservative estimate,” Doctor Song told him.  She altered the display, showing him the drug glands buried within the alien’s neck.  “I suspect the drug also affects their liver-analogue, forcing it to cleanse their blood at a truly frightening speed.  But I think if they were pushed, they’d be in deep trouble when they finally came off the drug.”

“They’ll know it too,” Henry mused.

“I don’t see how they
couldn't
know it,” Doctor Song said.  “But
we
were surprised when someone dropped an orgy bomb in Birmingham.”

Henry winced.  Someone - and years of investigation had never isolated a suspect, according to the files - had created a hormonal cocktail during the height of the Troubles and released it in a shopping mall in Birmingham, UK.  The result had been an absolute nightmare, with hundreds of shoppers driven wild with lust.  And the first responders, unsure just what they were about to encounter, had been affected too.  Dozens of people had been killed and the remainder had been badly traumatised.  Pheromone manipulation had been theoretically possible for years, but it was the first time anyone had experienced the potential on a large scale.  It had shocked Britain to the core.

Doctor Song went on, ruthlessly.  “Their hearing is probably better than ours, as I said,” she added, “and so is their sense of smell.  However, I’d bet that their eyesight isn't as effective as ours, at least in the daytime.  At night ... things may be different.  However, I’d be surprised if they didn't have the technology to even the odds.  We certainly do.”

“True,” Henry agreed.  “Did you spot anything to suggest genetic or technological enhancement?”

“No to the latter,” Doctor Song said.  “We didn't find a trace of implants or anything along the same lines.  There didn't even seem to be a basic neural link.  But genetically” - she shrugged, expressively - “we simply don’t understand their genetic code well enough to make any comments.  It took over a century to unlock many of the mysteries of the
human
gene code and ... well, we still make mistakes.”

Henry nodded.  The dream of enhanced humans, for better or worse, had yet to materialise.  It was easy enough to improve individual traits - his immune system was far tougher than that of his ancestors - but enhancing the entire human race?  There was no shortage of people who wanted to do just that; thankfully, they’d never actually gotten anywhere.  He had no doubt that ‘superior’ humans would eventually have turned on ‘inferior’ humans.

“I understand,” he said.

“I trust that you got what you came for,” Doctor Murray said.  “Our work here is important.”

“It is,” Henry agreed.  He looked at Doctor Song.  “Doctor, would you care to accompany the task force?”

Doctor Song stared at him.  “I am not a military officer,” she protested.  “I’ve never been on a warship in my life.”

“I need her here,” Doctor Murray added, sharply.  “Your Excellency ...”

“The country needs her expertise on the front lines,” Henry said, firmly.  “We don’t have
time
to send back biological samples, let alone live aliens.  Doctor Song will be assigned to an escort ship and, hopefully, have the first look at any captives we take.”

Doctor Murray scowled.  “And could you guarantee her safety?”

“No,” Henry said.  There was no point in trying to lie.  “But she would have a chance to make a very real difference.  This war ... this war may hinge on learning how to communicate with the newcomers.”

“Or learning how to kill them more effectively,” Doctor Song said, quietly.

“Exactly,” Henry said.  He took a breath.  “I can't force you to accompany the task force” - technically he could, but the last thing anyone wanted was a resentful xenospecialist - “but your presence would be very welcome.  It might make a considerable difference.”

Doctor Song looked at Doctor Murray, then back at Henry.  “Can I write a letter to my parents first, explaining why I’m leaving the system?”

“Of course,” Henry said.  “You’ll have at least a week to pack your supplies, including all the data and tools you think you’ll need, then you’ll be transported to the RV point to link up with the rest of the task force.  If you change your mind” - honour demanded he tell her, even though part of him suspected Doctor Murray would try hard to change her mind - “you need to let us know before the end of the week, so someone else can be invited in your place.”

“I understand,” Doctor Song said.  She took a breath.  “And I will come, if you need me.”

“We need
someone
,” Henry confirmed.  “I suggest you go write your letters now, then start planning for the trip.”

He waited until she had left the office, then looked at Doctor Murray.  “Don’t try to talk her out of this.”

“I need her,” Doctor Murray said, flatly.  “She isn't a military officer, Your Excellency.  Her expertise took years to develop.”

“That’s why we need her too,” Henry said.  “How long does it take to get a message from Earth to Tadpole Prime?”

“Two months,” Doctor Murray said.

“And this time the task force will be operating further from Earth,” Henry warned.  He knew she wouldn't understand, but he had to try.  “Having an expert on the spot, Doctor, may make the difference between life and death.”

“And so you’re taking a valuable researcher away from me,” Doctor Murray said.

“I’m taking her to where she can make an important contribution,” Henry said.  He rose, checking his watch.  There should be time to make it back to Nelson Base before the next round of briefings.  “And there will be plenty to be done back here, too.”

Chapter Four

“We’re approaching
Vanguard
now, Captain,” the pilot said.  “Do you want to come up front?”

Susan nodded and scrambled to her feet, hurrying forward until she was standing right behind the pilot and peering towards the L4 Shipyard.  Hundreds of starships, shuttlecraft and worker bees were buzzing around the complex - the human race was, once again, preparing for war - but her attention was helplessly drawn towards a cluster of lights waiting at the edge of the shipyard.  Illuminated by spotlights mounted on the spacedock, HMS
Vanguard
slowly took on shape and form as the shuttle approached.  Susan stared, memorising each feature anew.

My ship
, she thought.  It was a hell of a reward - a sign, perhaps, that she
did
have friends in high places after all.  Even if her promotion to Captain was confirmed, she’d be a long way down the line to command a
battleship
. 
And yet she’s all mine
.

She pressed against the cockpit as the battleship grew larger.  The damaged hull plates had been removed, she noted; the destroyed turrets had been replaced, hopefully with their weak points heavily armoured or removed altogether.  No one had taken a battleship into combat until the war - the Second Interstellar War - had broken out; no one had realised, absent that very real combat experience, the true strength and weaknesses of the design.  HMS
Vanguard
had been through the fire, enduring more than any of her predecessors would have been able to handle, but the unknowns had come very close to destroying her. 

And if we had been a mite less lucky
, she thought,
we would have been destroyed
.

The shuttle pilot circled the battleship once before shaping a course towards her officers dock, positioned towards the prow of the giant battleship.  It was traditional for a new commanding officer to arrive in the main shuttlebay, where her crew could greet her formally, but Susan had already been in command of the battleship.  There was no time to waste on pointless formalities, particularly formalities that did nothing beyond stroking her ego, when there was work to be done.  She strode back to her seat and collected her knapsack as a low thud echoed through the shuttle, followed by a hiss as her hatch opened slowly.

“Thank you for the flight,” she said, as she walked to the hatch.  “Are you heading straight back to Titan?”

“I have orders to report to Nelson Base,” the pilot said.  “Good luck, Captain.”

Susan nodded and stepped through the hatch, feeling the gravity quiver around her as she left the shuttle’s gravity field and entered
Vanguard’s
.  It felt harsh, after the lighter gravity of Titan, but she was damned if she was admitting any kind of weakness.  Besides, it wasn't as if a month was enough to cause muscle degradation, not with the enhancements spliced into her genetic code.  A week or two and she'd probably have forgotten that she’d ever felt ... uneasy ... with the higher gravity.

The inner hatch hissed open.  “Captain,” a familiar voice said.  “Welcome back.”

“Paul,” Susan said.  Commander Paul Mason was an old friend - and a co-conspirator when she’d plotted her contingency plans.  “Congratulations on your promotion.”

“Congratulations on
yours
,” Mason said.  He saluted, smartly.  “We only got the word a couple of hours ago.  I’m afraid we haven’t
quite
dusted everywhere yet.”

“I’m sure the finishing touches can wait an hour or two,” Susan said.  She felt an odd lump in her throat as she surveyed her crew.  “I hope ... I hope matters were not too hard on any of you.”

“You took all the blame, it seems,” Major Christopher Andreas said.  The Marine CO leaned forward to shake her hand.  “It didn't stop General Ramón from bawling me out, Captain, but I think most of us were in the clear.”

Mason cleared his throat.  “This is Lieutenant-Commander Jean Granger,” he said, introducing a redheaded woman.  “She’s been assigned as our tactical officer.”

“Captain,” Jean Granger said.  “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“And you,” Susan said.  She supposed that not
all
of her former crew could be bumped up a rank or two, although she’d expected Lieutenant David Reed to get the tactical slot.  But then, the Admiralty would probably want
someone
in place who hadn't been contaminated by any ...
contingency planning
.  “I’ll speak to you later, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, Captain,” Jean said.  Very few officers would
mind
talking to their commanding officer - and if they did, they should know to hide it.  “I also have a tactical brief from the Admiralty for your attention.”

Susan nodded, quietly making a mental note to ensure she spoke to Jean within the day.  “I thank you all for this,” she said, raising her voice to address her officers.  “It’s very good to be back.  And I would like to invite you all for dinner tonight, at 1900.  We have much to discuss.”

She paused.  “Commander Mason, remain behind,” she ordered.  “The rest of you, dismissed.”

“We cleared Captain Blake’s gear out of his cabin,” Mason told her, quietly.  “It’s open for you now, if you wish it.”

“Good,” Susan said.  She’d left his cabin alone after she’d assumed command - it had been as good a place as any to put him - but now it was hers.  “You can come with me.  I imagine we have a great deal to discuss.”

She kept her face expressionless as she strode through the corridors, silently noting the ongoing work to prepare the battleship for war.  Crewmen - many of them unfamiliar - were unpacking boxes, installing components and checking and rechecking their work.  A handful of her junior officers snapped to attention as she passed, then relaxed as she strode on to her cabin.  It wouldn't be long before word got around the ship, if it hadn’t already.  Captain Onarina had returned.

“Well,” she said, once they had entered the bare cabin.  Someone had put a bottle of whiskey on the captain’s table, along with a pair of glasses, but there was nothing else in the compartment.  “How was it for you?”

“They asked a great many questions,” Mason said.  He relaxed as soon as the hatch had hissed closed.  “And I answered them to the best of my ability.  There was a week in pokey and then they sent me back to the ship with a promotion and orders to get her ready for combat as soon as possible.”

“That’s good,” Susan said.  It was hard not to feel envy, but she
had
been the one who had worked hard to ensure she took most of the blame.  Her subordinates could claim they’d followed orders, although she had no idea how well
that
would have stood up in a court martial hearing.  “Have you heard anything else?”

“Your father sent me a number of emails, which I have strict orders to pass on to you at the most convenient moment,” Mason told her.  “He appears to believe we’re lovers.”

Susan would have blushed, if her skin had allowed it.  Mason and she had been barrack mates, back at the academy.  She
couldn't
have been his lover, not when it would have landed them both in hot water.  And besides, it would have felt like kissing her brother.

“I’ll v-mail him tonight,” Susan said.  “Or perhaps we can have a real conversation.”

“You should be able to,” Mason said.  He reached for the bottle and poured them both a generous dollop of alcohol.  “You
are
the Captain, Captain.”

He sobered.  “I think he was trying to round up political support,” he added.  “You’d probably be better emailing him now, before he does something foolish.”

Susan winced.  Her father was a stubborn old man - hell, he wasn’t really that old.  He’d been strict with her, pointing out that he expected her to excel at everything she did, but he'd also fought hard for her.  She had a feeling she might have been expelled from Hanover Towers if her father hadn't driven up to the school to argue her case personally with the headmistress, citing chapter and verse to make sure her suspension couldn't become an expulsion.  The thought of the conversation they’d had afterwards made her cringe, but she’d never doubted her father was on her side.  He’d proved it too many times.

“I will,” she said.  She took a sip of the whiskey as she sat down, silently promising herself that she’d get some more comfortable furniture moved into the suite before they left the spacedock.  “How is the ship?”

A shadow crossed Mason’s face.  Susan couldn't help feeling a flicker of guilt.  She would have hated it if a senior officer had come in and taken command, after she’d spent days repairing the damage and preparing the ship for war.  Mason was a friend, but he would have been more than human if he hadn’t felt
some
resentment.  Yesterday, he’d been commanding officer in all but name; now, he was nothing more than her XO.

“Most of the major damage has been repaired,” Mason said.  He stared down into his glass as he spoke.  “We’ve altered the control links to the turrets, ensuring we cannot be cut off from them if - when - we go back into battle.  And we’ve hardened the armour and added additional plating in places, as well as a number of extra point defence weapons.  I dare say we should be able to give the aliens quite a surprise in our next encounter.”

Susan nodded.  “And the bad news?”

“Two-thirds of the crew were rotated out during the first week,” Mason said.  He sounded pissed.  She didn't blame him.  “The CO who got dumped in your chair while we were being interrogated ... he didn't kick up a fuss when the Admiralty went looking for trained and experienced personnel.  It took me a week of arguing, pleading and kissing several buttocks before they dispatched replacement crew - and, even now, we’re understrength.”

“Fuck,” Susan said. 

“Quite,” Mason agreed.  “Thankfully, we haven’t had any disciplinary problems so far - nothing the senior chiefs couldn't handle, in any case.  But we’ve lost nearly all of our middies - Georgina Fitzwilliam is the only one who stayed with us, although heaven alone knows why.”

“She’s the First Space Lord’s niece,” Susan recalled.  “I imagine he wouldn't want to pull her out when it might make him look bad.”

“Perhaps, Captain,” Mason said.  “In any case, she’s been given leave - along with half of the experienced crew - and should be returning to us in the next two days ...”

Susan blinked.  “We’re short on crew and you gave them leave?”

Mason met her eyes, evenly.  “They were pushed right to the limits, Captain,” he said.  “The number of mistakes caused by tiredness was rising sharply.  I made the call to give them some leave, which they desperately needed.”

“And it was your call to make,” Susan conceded.  “Do we have any other problems?”

“The Admiralty wants us at the RV point within the week,” Mason said.  “I suspect they might want us to be there, ready or not.  There was a ...
finality
about the message.”

“As long as we don’t run off with the shipyard workers,” Susan said.  “That might get us in some trouble.”

She smiled in genuine amusement.  Stellar Star had done that, but Stellar Star had an overflowing shipsuit and a friendly scriptwriter.  She didn't want to
think
about what the Admiralty would say if she kidnapped a few dozen shipyard workers.  They’d probably shoot her first and worry about the charges later.

“Yeah,” Mason agreed.  “It would probably get us into very deep shit.”

He tossed back his drink, then placed the glass on the table.  “I think we can make it, Captain, but we’re going to be pressed for crew.  I’ve got an application in for additional crewmen, yet ... from what I’m hearing through the grapevine, there aren't many crewmen left who can be diverted to
Vanguard
.  Right now, the Admiralty is hard-pressed to keep up with demand.  I suspect that reservists are being mobilised, but ... well it will be weeks before they’re ready to take up positions and we’ll be gone well before then.  The only good news is that we should have an
almost
complete roster of midshipmen, when they actually arrive, but most of them are either green or have very limited experience.”