The Trafalgar Gambit

Chapter Eleven

“Admiral,” Janelle said, “Ambassador Melbourne and his staff just signalled us. They’ll be landing within thirty minutes.”

“Finally,” Ted muttered. He’d hoped to have the ship ready to go before the planned deadline. Instead, the Ambassador and his staff had cut matters very fine indeed. “I’ll be down in the shuttlebay to greet them.”

He had no doubt, as he pulled on his dress uniform, that the Ambassadors would expect a full greeting party. But they were going to be disappointed. Ted couldn’t justify pulling a honour guard of Royal Marines out of Marine Country, let alone divert his senior officers from their duties to greet the Ambassadors. Instead, it would be just him. If nothing else, it would give him a chance to see how the Ambassadors reacted to what they would probably consider disrespect.

“Don’t forget your cap and sidearm,” Janelle warned, as Ted inspected himself in the mirror and reluctantly concluded he looked presentable. “And you should wear your medals, sir.”

“No, thank you,” Ted said. He’d been given several medals by Britain and dozens more from all around the world. There was no way he could wear all of them on his chest, certainly not in a public gathering. Protocol officers were still having fits over precisely how many medals he should wear at any one time. “There’s no point in trying to impress them.”

He sighed. Janelle had been moved into his cabin, her own having been assigned to one of the Ambassadors and his aides. The first person who joked about it, he had promised himself, would be spending the rest of the cruise cleaning toilets with a toothbrush. But it did have the advantage of allowing him to keep an eye on Janelle. She was still doing her duties, but it was clear her mind was elsewhere. Perhaps leaving the solar system entirely would be better for her.

“They’re almost here,” Janelle said. “The shuttlebay is preparing to receive them.”

Ted nodded, then walked through the hatch and down towards the shuttlebay. Janelle followed, dogging his heels like an overeager puppy. Several crewmen saluted him as he passed; others, carrying large boxes of spare parts and other components, merely nodded. Ted smiled, remembering the days when he had been a junior officer. They’d competed to carry the larger boxes, knowing it spared them from having to salute every superior they met along the way. It was astonishing how many junior officers thought they were the first ones to invent that dodge.

And it keeps them busy too, he thought, wryly.

He stepped through the airlock into the shuttlebay, just in time to watch as the shuttle nosed its way through the hatch and settled to the deck, the giant shuttlebay doors closing behind it so the compartment could be pressurised. The shuttle looked older and more battered than he would have expected from a diplomatic shuttle, but all forms of aerospace transport were in short supply right now. Chances were the original craft had been detailed to recovery work and hadn’t been returned to their owners yet.

“The shuttlebay is pressurised,” Janelle said. “Admiral?”

Ted sighed. Having reporters onboard his ship had been bad enough, but he knew from scuttlebutt that ambassadors could be worse. They combined the very worst of politicians and reporters, wanting to have things all their own way while being too ignorant to understand just what they were giving away. Or maybe he was just being paranoid. He knew the British Government wouldn’t have selected an idiot or a team of idiots to handle delicate negotiations with the aliens. The files had certainly suggested otherwise.

He led the way into the shuttlebay and stood to attention as the shuttle’s hatch cracked open, revealing a pair of grim-faced aides. They blinked at Ted, clearly having expected something more formal, then stepped down and onto the deck. Behind them, the Ambassadors and their staffs followed, their faces schooled to reveal nothing of their thoughts. Ted saluted them, then relaxed. It was important that none of the Ambassadors thought they could walk all over him.

“Admiral Smith,” Ambassador Melbourne said.

“Ambassador,” Ted replied. “Welcome onboard Ark Royal.”

Ambassador Horace Melbourne didn’t seem put out at the lack of a formal greeting party. He was a short man, older and fatter than Ted would have expected wearing a simple shipsuit with a Union Jack mounted prominently on his right shoulder. Behind him, the American, Chinese and French diplomats wore similar clothes, although with their own flags. It had been decided, apparently, that there was no point in wearing any form of formal dress. The aliens would be unlikely to understand the importance of a suit and tie.

“It’s a pleasure to be here,” Melbourne assured him. “We’re quite enthused about the chance to handle the diplomatic negotiations.”

He smiled, then turned to indicate his companions. “Let me introduce Ambassador Lawrence Tennant, of the United States of America, Ambassador Luo Wenkang of China and Ambassador Pierre Gasconne of France. Between us, we represent the major powers of Earth.”

“That’s good to hear,” Ted said. The aliens might have nation-states of their own, but there was no doubt that humanity definitely had different nations and nationalities. An agreement that suited Britain might not be accepted by the other spacefaring powers. But with four ambassadors involved, it was likely they could come up with a compromise the entire human race could accept. “With your permission, we will show you to your quarters and get you settled in for the voyage.”

He felt his eyes narrow as others came out of the shuttle. One of them, a young girl who couldn’t have been much older than Janelle, didn’t ring any alarm bells, but the presence of Doctor Russell definitely did. The bioweapons project was an international research effort, Ted knew; it was the only way to avoid accusations that Britain was covertly breaking the ban on genetically-engineered biological weapons. And he had the feeling that having the Doctor assigned to his ship meant that someone anticipated having to use the bioweapon against alien-settled worlds.

“This is Doctor Polly MacDonald,” Ambassador Melbourne said, introducing the girl. “She is currently one of the senior researchers at Selene.”

Where they keep the alien captives, Ted thought. He made a mental note to read the girl’s file as quickly as possible. Had she figured out a way to understand the aliens or was she as blind as the rest of them? He’d need to talk to her — or have Janelle talk to her — as soon as possible, without the Ambassadors listening in.

“Welcome onboard,” he said. “I look forward to hearing about your work.”

Polly MacDonald smiled. She was pretty, with curly red hair and a freckled face, but it was clear she was also very smart. Ted had a cynical view of most Earth-side universities — they tended to specialise in turning intelligent young people into fools and ideologues — yet he knew that Selene wouldn’t have tolerated an idiot becoming a senior researcher. Selene was focused around results, rather than academic ideals. It had produced some of the best inventors of the last fifty years.

“Thank you, Admiral,” she said. Her voice had a Scottish lilt, although it was almost buried under a more cosmopolitan accent. “It’s always a pleasure to talk about it to someone interested.”

Ted nodded, then frowned inwardly as more aides and assistants flowed out of the shuttle. Each of the Ambassadors, it seemed, had at least five or six people assigned to them by their government, several with redundant job portfolios. That, at least for the Chinese Ambassador, probably meant that some of the aides were actually meant to keep an eye on their nominal superiors. The Frenchman might have the same problem.

“If you’ll come with us,” Ted said, “we will escort you to your cabins, then you can join me and my senior officers for dinner later.”

“Ah,” Ambassador Melbourne said. “The very best of naval cuisine.”

“Of course,” Ted agreed, dryly. He barely managed to keep himself from smirking openly. If they were expecting a nine-course banquet with all the trimmings they were going to be very disappointed. There was no way he was going to host such a gathering when there were millions of people starving down on Earth. “Please. Come this way.”

Kurt stood on the balcony and silently watched as the Ambassadors and their staffs made their way towards the airlock. The Ambassadors seemed to take it in their stride, but some of their staff were clearly ill-at-ease onboard the giant carrier. Kurt had never felt it himself, yet he did understand the feeling. The carrier could be disconcerting to a new starfighter pilot, let alone civilians who might not even have flown in space before. Faint quivers ran through the deck as the engineers tested the drives, while there was a constant thrumming in the background. Kurt had to concentrate to hear it now — he was so used to it — but it would be a while before the newcomers were able to tune it out automatically.

And one of them was… what? A spy? A reporter?

He’d barely slept since returning to the carrier as he worked the problem time and time again, trying to think of a way out. But everything seemed to be sewn up neatly. If he admitted the truth to his superiors, he would have to admit he had no idea who his contact was supposed to be — and he’d still be in deep shit for breaking regulations so blatantly. They might have escaped more than a sharp reprimand, he knew, if they’d broken off the relationship after escaping the alien trap. But instead they’d kept it going…

Kurt gritted his teeth. Honour demanded one thing, duty demanded another… and his crippling fear for the safety of his family demanded a third. He didn’t dare risk losing his post, not now. Percy and Penny — and Gayle, he supposed — needed him. And it wasn’t just his family, he knew. Rose would lose her career too. What would happen to her if she was kicked out of the Navy in disgrace?

The thought kept tormenting him as he watched the remaining aides making their way through the airlock. Which one of them was the spy? And what did he or she want?

I won’t do anything that threatens the ship, he told himself, firmly. But he already knew he’d crossed that line when he didn’t laugh in Fred’s face. His weakness alone was a threat. But what else can I do?

He stepped backwards as the last of the aides vanished from sight, then turned and walked through the hatch. A handful of crewmen waved cheerfully at him as they passed, but he ignored them, his thoughts elsewhere. He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he barely noticed when he reached Pilot Country. Someone — probably one of the more experienced pilots — had scrawled Welcome To The Nursery on the hatch. Kurt hadn’t had the heart to hunt down the culprit and force him to spend several hours removing the mark. He tended to agree with the mysterious vandal.

The simulators were occupied, he noted, as he glanced into the exercise room. Rose, to give her full credit, had taken over much of the work of preparing the maggots for flight duties, which meant putting them through so many simulated exercises that they spend their nights dreaming of flying through space in a starfighter. Kurt glanced at the statistics, noted there had been a slight improvement over the last few days, then sighed. It was too likely they’d overwork some of the newcomers and be forced to let them rest.

“Things aren’t what they used to be,” a voice said.

Kurt jumped, then spun around. Jake MacFarlane stood there, looking surprised at Kurt’s reaction. The pilot hadn’t been on Ark Royal for the first desperate battles against the aliens, but he’d joined the ship in time for Operation Nelson and the attack on Target One. He’d been a young puppy back then, someone who had trained alongside Prince Henry. Now, he was effectively a veteran pilot.

“They never were,” Kurt pointed out. He’d had the full training course. MacFarlane had had the Accelerated Training Course. The maggots in the simulators hadn’t even had that. But then, MacFarlane had clearly learned something. Or he would have died. “How are you enjoying your promotion?”

MacFarlane sighed. He’d been assigned to serve as a Squadron Commander, but it was very much a poisoned chalice. Almost all of his pilots were rank newcomers.

“I feel I should be sending them to their beds without supper,” MacFarlane said. “They’re kids.”

Kurt nodded. He’d had the same reaction.

And he knew that far too many of those kids were going to die.

“I was surprised, Admiral, at your reluctance to serve alcohol,” Ambassador Gasconne said. “It does tend to make diplomatic dinners go smoothly.”

“Unless someone gets drunk and forgets diplomacy,” Ambassador Tennant pointed out. “I was there when the Ambassador from Argentina got drunk and practically challenged the Ambassador from Brazil to a duel. Smoothing that over took a great deal of work.”

Ted shrugged. It had been nearly a year since he’d touched a drop of alcohol, but there were times when he felt the urge to take a drink howling at the back of his mind. Alcohol had comforted him when his ship had been nothing more than a floating museum piece, yet when he’d actually had to go on active service he’d forced himself to stop drinking. It hadn’t been easy.

And if Fitzwilliam hadn’t been there, he thought, I would have fallen back into a bottle and stayed there.

He looked around the table, smiling inwardly. The Ambassadors hadn’t seemed too put out by the food, but some of their aides were clearly doubtful. Ted had read their files, though; the Ambassadors were veterans of secret diplomacy, men who made deals well away from the media or the general public. They’d understand that it wasn’t all fine wines, fancy dinners and public relations. But they wouldn’t normally take their staff with them on such missions.

“The Navy is officially dry,” he said, simply. It wasn’t entirely true, yet he’d banned alcohol from the flotilla and made it stick. Someone probably had an illicit still somewhere — it was practically tradition - but as long as they were careful, Ted wouldn’t be forced to take notice of it. “We have to set a good example.”

“It could be worse,” Ambassador Melbourne said. He nodded towards the dishes on the table. “I had to attend a meeting in Arabia once, years ago. They tried to feed me something made of greasy fat with a tiny piece of meat and piles of steaming rice. I later discovered it was goat.”

Ted had to smile. The ship’s cooks had done their best, but there was a shortage of fresh food from Earth these days. Most of the meal had come from processed biomass grown in the ship’s hydroponic farms or recycled from the waste disposal systems. There were civilians who refused to eat anything recycled, all too aware of what it had been recycled from.

“We don’t have goat on the menu,” he said. “But we had to produce the meat in a vat.”

“Understandable,” Tennant said. “We can’t afford to eat now when people are desperately looking for food down below.”

Ted nodded. America had been badly hit by the tidal waves, but America simply had much more room to grow food and house refugees. Even so, it would be years before the country recovered, if it ever did. The latest reports suggested that applications for emigration, just like Britain, had skyrocketed over the last few days. Earth no longer felt safe and tranquil.

“But I should ask,” Fitzwilliam said. “What do you plan to offer the aliens?”

“It depends,” Melbourne said. The Ambassador shared glances with his compatriots. “Ideally, we want a return to the pre-war status quo, with a border demarcation and embassies that will prevent another war. Unfortunately, as we have no idea why they started the war, we may have to adapt to circumstances. At worst, we will have to cede the occupied worlds to them permanently in exchange for peace.”

“The Russians will love that,” Fitzwilliam pointed out. “Don’t you have a Russian representative on your staff?”

“Yes, Peter Golovanov,” Melbourne said. “But the Russians declined to send a formal Ambassador. Peter is… just an observer.”

Ted frowned. International diplomacy wasn’t something he had much experience with, apart from commanding a multinational fleet during Operation Nelson, but it seemed odd for the Russians to refuse to take part in any negotiations. Or had they assumed that the diplomats would be forced to cede the occupied worlds, including New Russia, and refused to take part on the theory that agreements wouldn’t be binding if Russia didn’t sign them? It wasn’t a question he could ask at such a gathering.

I’ll talk to the Ambassador privately, later, he thought.

Fitzwilliam changed the subject, hastily. “Doctor,” he said, “do you think we can actually communicate with the aliens?”

“We have devised ways to convert our voices into something they can hear,” Doctor Polly McDonald said. “But we have problems actually communicating with them. Some of the prisoners are more cooperative than others, yet we haven’t been able to get them to talk properly. I think their society is so different from ours that some of our concepts don’t make sense to them.”

She smiled, charmingly. “I have been able to discuss mathematical concepts with them,” she added. “They can do their sums, so we’re not dealing with a race of drones, but we just can’t get some of our ideas across to them. We may never be able to understand them completely.”

“Wonderful,” Melbourne said. “And to think I thought negotiating with religious fanatics was bad.”