Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7) (11 page)

“It would cost you your career,” Mason said, bluntly.  “Never make a weak man look small, Susan.  He’ll never forgive you for it.”

Susan sighed.  The relationship between captain and XO had been laid down for centuries, ever since the days when the Royal Navy had been messing around in boats instead of flying starships.  An XO was supposed to be the captain’s
alter ego
, watching his back, taking as much of the day-to-day burdens off his shoulders ... and, when asked, providing uninhibited commentary and advice.  Her superior officer on
Cornwall
had never contradicted the captain in public, but she’d heard him disagree - sometimes quite loudly - with the commanding officer in private.  And
his
career had never been harmed.  He’d been earmarked for CO of a cruiser when Susan had left the ship for the final time. 

Of course
, she thought,
a commanding officer is supposed to have been an XO.  He’d understand what the job entailed, even if he didn't like being contradicted in private.

She scowled.  “So what
do
I tell him?”

Mason met her eyes.  “You can't tell him he’s being an ass, because that could cost you everything,” he said.  “A simple comment in the margins of your personal report would be enough to damn you to Rockall.  And you can’t report him because that would probably be enough to damn your career anyway.  The captain’s connections will bring you down, unless you make a secretive approach and that could easily backfire.  All you can really do is wait until he crosses the line, then hope you can relieve him before he causes a
real
disaster.”

Susan glared at him.  “You mean like nearly blowing an innocent courier boat out of space?”

“It may not have been entirely innocent,” Mason pointed out.  “She vanished shortly after we passed through the tramline.”

“Maybe,” Susan said, doubtfully.  “But even if she was crammed to the gills with reporters, it wouldn't justify blowing her out of space.”

She looked down at her hands.  There was no reason for the courier boat to shadow
Vanguard
and her escorts all the way to the tramline, not when the courier could easily have given the warships a wide berth.  No, it suggested that the courier and her crew were interested in the battleship itself, which was worrying.  And yet, they could learn nothing through optical examinations of the ship’s hull, certainly nothing that wasn't already public.  She’d been careful to monitor off-ship traffic, but there had been nothing save for their final transmission before entering the tramline. 

“All we can do is wait, then,” she said.  She stood and poured herself a second mug of black coffee.  “What do you make of the new midshipmen?”

“Reasonably capable,” Mason said.  “Not a patch on us, of course.”

“Of course,” Susan agreed.

Mason smiled.  “Fitzwilliam has a good head on her shoulders for tactical problems, it seems,” he added.  “Asks good questions, never makes the same mistake twice ... Bosworth asked about one of the unpredictable tests and seemed a little put out when I told him it was meant to help him prepare for the unexpected, not what we
knew
we’d be facing.”

“It does tend to catch people by surprise,” Susan agreed.  “I fought a ship that was protected by forcefields and carried long-range energy weapons.”

She smiled at the memory, although it had been embarrassing at the time.  An outside-context enemy would be a complete surprise, she’d been told; the
real
purpose of the test was to see how quickly she reacted to an unexpected threat, rather than something she understood and trained to face.  Forcefields were the stuff of science-fantasy, like jumping through space without tramlines or sending messages at FTL speeds, even though the boffins kept claiming that they
should
be possible.  But no one had produced a working forcefield, let alone a portable tramline generator.  She wouldn't hold her breath waiting to see one.

“Yeah,” Mason said.  “I won ten pounds on that battle.”

Susan gave him a cross look.  “I won
fifteen
on yours.”

“No wonder you were buying the drinks that night,” Mason said, wryly.

“Back to the subject at hand,” Susan said, “do you anticipate any major problems?”

“With our two new midshipmen?”  Mason shrugged, then allowed his voice to become more formal.  “They’ve got a lot of baby fat to lose, Commander, and much of what they learned at the academy hasn't prepared them for the reality of shipboard life.  But they’re good kids and have a reasonable chance of actually
mastering
their responsibilities before we go back to war.”

Susan
looked
at him.  “Do you think we’re going to be fighting another war?”

“Humans are always fighting wars,” Mason said.  “The Indians are probably still smarting over the thrashing we gave them, while the Russians are brooding and the minor powers are plotting their own advance into space.  And then there’re the Tadpoles.  They might decide to restart the war at a moment’s notice.”

“I hope you’re being paranoid,” Susan said.

“Maybe,” Mason said.  “But you have noticed that the government has been pouring one-third of our total revenue into the navy and shipbuilding?  I don’t think we were spending so much on the military during the Troubles, when we were fighting for our survival.  Even now, ten years after the last war, they’re still building up the fleet.  Someone expects trouble.”

He paused.  “Not that I’m complaining,” he added.  “The more starships in active service, the greater the chance for a command of my own.”

“I can understand that,” Susan said.  “I feel the same way too.  A command of my own ... that would be a dream come true.”

She finished her second mug of coffee, then rose.  “If you don’t mind, I have to be on the bridge in two hours ...”

“... And you want a catnap,” Mason finished.  He rose, putting the mug down on the table as he walked towards the door.  “I’ll speak to you soon, all right?  You’re not alone here.”

“As long as the captain doesn’t know it,” Susan said.  She met his eyes for a long moment, trying to convey her message.  “There’s no point in
both
of us going down in flames.”

Chapter Ten

“You know,” Nathan commented, as he looked around the tiny compartment, “this looks like a prison.”

George said nothing.  She was too nervous to speak.  Fraser’s hints of what was coming worried her, even though - so far - all that had happened was that they’d been pushed into a small compartment and told to wait while the older midshipmen prepared for the initiation.  It was unlikely either of them would be physically hurt - the navy took a dim view of midshipmen hurting themselves while they were meant to be on duty - but she had a nasty feeling that they were in for some humiliation.  She’d tried looking up initiation rites in the files, only to discover that each ship had its own.  There had been nothing on what might be lying in wait for them.

“It won’t kill us,” Nathan said.  He was trying to be reassuring, George realised.  “I’m sure it won’t hurt, either.”

“Hah,” George said.  The files had suggested that initiation rites brought crews closer together, but they’d also stated that some crews had crossed the line.  Would Fraser?  She knew he disliked her, purely because of her name.  “I bet you it’ll be humiliating.”

“Fraser will have survived his own,” Nathan said.  “I’m sure he wouldn't repeat something that almost killed him.”

George snorted.  Back at the academy, senior cadets had hazed junior cadets, insisting that they’d been treated in the same way when
they’d
been junior cadets.  But there, the academy staff had kept it under firm control, ensuring that it didn't go too far.  Here, on
Vanguard
, the person who was meant to supervise was Fraser.  And
he
was clearly not inclined to be
nice
.

“We shall see,” she muttered.  The tension in her stomach had only grown worse.  “And if we don’t survive?”

“I’m sure they’ll give us a decent funeral,” Nathan said.

George gave him a one-fingered gesture.  Someone dying during an initiation rite - a hazing, in less polite terms - would be a major scandal, but was Fraser too far gone to realise it?  He would have to be insane to actually risk their lives, yet he might well believe they could cope with more than they could.  After all, he’d been a midshipman for over five
years
.  They’d barely been midshipmen for over a fortnight. 

The hatch hissed open.  Midshipman Randor - everyone called him Randy - Miles and Midshipman James Pettigrew stepped through, wearing long dark robes that made them look like wizards, rather than starship crewmen.  George wondered, as she stood, just how they’d managed to bring the clothes onto the ship, then decided the answer was probably simple.  If all of the midshipmen had brought one set, they wouldn't need any more.

“From this moment on, you do exactly as you’re told, without hesitation,” Randy said, sternly.  “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Nathan said.

George hesitated - Randy hadn't given any sense of being genuinely
randy
, but she had the feeling he liked her no better than his superior - and then nodded in agreement.  There was no point in disagreeing, not now.  It would be better to save her energies for later in the initiation rite.  She held herself as steady as she could, refusing to let any sign of fear show on her face despite his proximity.  Beside her, Nathan did the same.

“Strip,” Randy ordered.

Nathan choked.  “What?”

“Strip,” Randy repeated.  “And that was your one warning.”

George glowered at him.  He expected her to strip, as though she was a prisoner in a maximum-security prison?  Or, for that matter, Stellar Star in one of the innumerable times she’d been captured by a handsome enemy soldier?  It was absurd ... she could just walk out, refusing to take part ... and yet, all the files agreed that spacers rarely respected anyone who refused to go through the initiation rites.  They were part and parcel of living in space.

And he’s probably seen me naked already
, she thought.  Hell, she was used to being naked in front of her fellow midshipmen.  She’d seen
him
naked a few times too. 
And I won’t be giving him a show
.

She kept her eyes on him, defiantly, as she stripped off her shirt and trousers, followed by her bra and panties.  They were navy-issue, she knew; there was nothing there to excite even the most depraved pervert.  Resting her hands on her hips, she met his eyes as she stood there, as naked as the day she was born.  Nathan was naked too, she presumed, but she refused to look away from Randy.  He’d have to do more than merely order her to strip if he wanted to break her.

“Turn around,” Randy ordered.  George gritted her teeth, but did as she was told, keeping her hands on her hips.  Her movements would be as asexual as possible.  “Put your hands behind your backs.”

George obeyed, then tensed as she felt a plastic tie being wrapped around her wrists, binding her hands firmly in place.  She opened her mouth to protest, only to grunt in surprise as someone dropped a black hood over her head.  It was hot and uncomfortable; she felt a flicker of panic before realising she could still breathe normally.  Someone gripped her arm - standard female grab area, the irrelevant part of her mind noted - and turned her around, pulling her out of the hatch.  She knew they couldn't be going far - somehow, she doubted the XO would be amused if two naked midshipmen were stumbling blindfolded through the corridors - but it was disconcerting.  Where were they going?

She heard a hatch hiss open and braced herself as she was half-pulled into the compartment.  It was still dark, inside her hood, but she could hear several people breathing, although it sounded oddly muffled.  Perhaps she was imagining it?  She’d endured a sensory deprivation chamber as part of her tests, back at the academy; it hadn't taken her long to start imagining she was hearing voices, even though she’d
known
they were imaginary.  Hell, she'd known what she was going to face and it had still been a hellish experience.  Perhaps they’d just shoved her in a closet and left her there, bound and helpless.  She might be alone ...

“On your knees,” Fraser’s voice said.  It was hard to be sure, but it sounded as though he was standing right in front of her.  “Now.”

It wasn't easy to get down on her knees with her hands bound behind her back, but she managed it, somehow.  The sound of breathing grew louder, as if the person was right next to her ... or if her own breathing was echoing in her ears.  Being blindfolded was more disconcerting that she’d realised.  God alone knew where Nathan was, let alone the others ...

“We are gathered here today,” Fraser said, “to welcome two prospective crewmembers to our ship.”

George giggled.  She couldn't help herself.  Fraser sounded like a man on the verge of performing a wedding ceremony, not someone presiding over an initiation rite.  But, a second later, someone slapped her ass hard enough to sting.  She bit her lip to keep from crying out at the sudden shock.

“They must be of stout heart and stouter body to serve on this ship,” Fraser continued, dramatically.  George heard the sound of a glass clinking and wondered, feeling a flicker of alarm, just what Fraser was drinking.  “Are they ready to drink the nectar of the gods?”

“Yes,” Randy said.

George tensed as she felt hands fiddling with her hood, pulling it up so her mouth was exposed.  She half-expected to feel a cup being pressed to her lips, but instead she felt something warm and slimy.  He had to be out of his mind!  Forcing her to perform oral sex was so far beyond the line that Fraser’s court martial would be the shortest formality on record, even if it
did
ruin her career.  A sudden surge of anger shot through her; she opened her mouth, then bit down as hard as she could.  She tasted rubber and plastic as she spewed out the remains onto the deck.

“Well, there goes a good hose,” a female voice said.  She sounded as though she was trying not to laugh.  “Good thing you didn’t actually ...”

“Shut up,” Fraser said.  He didn’t sound angry, somewhat to George’s surprise.  But then, he’d
wanted
her to think he was going to place his cock in her mouth.  “Clearly, they are
not
ready to drink the nectar of the gods.”

A ripple of laughter ran around the compartment.  George tried to estimate just how many people were standing around her - all seven midshipmen? - but it was impossible to be sure of anything, save for Fraser and Randy.  And Nathan.  There were two other midshipwomen on the ship, yet she didn't know them that well.  Their duty shifts rarely coincided enough to allow her to have a proper chat.

“They must be tested,” Fraser intoned.  “They will rise.”

George tried to rise, but it was impossible to get off her aching knees with her hands bound behind her back.  Eventually, someone took her shoulders and helped her to her feet, then pulled her forward.  The deck felt colder, somehow, beneath her bare feet, although she wasn't sure if that was normal.  Being without shoes on duty was probably worth an infraction or two.  She walked for nearly ten minutes before she was pulled to a halt, confusing her.  They wouldn't really have gone outside middy country, would they?

“The prospective midshipmen will now walk the plank,” Fraser said.  He sounded more distant, somehow.  “Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam, walk forward.”

George hesitated, then took a step forward.  The deck changed beneath her feet, becoming a piece of springy plastic.  It wobbled under her weight; she stopped, unsure just where she was or what she should do.  Walking the plank only happened in bad pirate movies or the books her uncle had loaned her, back when she’d expressed an interest in joining the navy.  There had been initiation rites in them too, she recalled, although they tended to include floggings until the victim’s back ran with blood.  At least Fraser didn't seem to have read
those
books.

The plastic shifted again as she took another step.  Where did it lead?  There wasn't a pit in the ship, was there?  Unless someone had taken up some of the deck plating, allowing her to plunge down an entire level.  She froze, suddenly convinced that that was
precisely
what Fraser had done.  If he’d been drinking, he might not have the sense, any longer, to realise it was a terrifyingly bad idea.  She could break a leg or worse ...

“If she is of stout heart,” Fraser said, “she will walk forward.”

I’m not letting you beat me
, George thought.  She took a step forward, and another, and another ... and then the plank gave way.  There was no time to do more than take a breath before she toppled forward and landed, face-first, on something soft and yielding.  She was stunned, she realised dully, but unharmed. 
Fuck you, you bastard.  I fucking won
.

“She is of stout heart,” someone said.  It sounded like Randy, but George was too stunned to be sure.  “Help her up.”

George felt hands helping her back to her feet, then pulling at her hood.  It came free, revealing a makeshift plank hanging over a comfortable mattress.  She looked around to see Fraser, Randy and Honoraria grinning at her.  All three of them were wearing black robes.

“Turn around,” Honoraria said.  “You’re nearly done.”

“Thank you,” George said, as Honoraria cut the plastic tie away from her wrists.  Her wrists ached; they were covered in ugly red marks, which she did her best to smooth away.  “Is that it?”

“More or less,” Honoraria said.  Fraser and Randy turned and walked away, while Honoraria passed George a black robe of her own.  “You did better than me, I think.  I pissed myself when I walked the plank.”

She snickered.  “And you
really
did a number on the hose.”

George pulled her robe over her head, hoping the aches in her wrists would be gone by the morning.  She had the feeling any marks would be difficult to explain to her superiors, even though
they
would have presumably gone through the same rites themselves.  Honoraria watched her calmly, then held out a hand.  George shook her head as she took a step forward, making sure she could walk properly.  Her legs didn't feel as though they were working right.

“If you need a few minutes to gather yourself,” Honoraria whispered, “we can tell them we’re powdering our noses.”