His Majesty's Starship (34 page)

*

Gilmore sat at the command desk with his head in his hands. Hannah squeezed his shoulder.

“You couldn’t help it,” she said.

“He was my responsibility,” he said quietly. “He was my crew.”

“It could have happened to anyone,” she said.

“Could it?” Gilmore lifted his head up and looked at the radar. “Boats don’t just explode, Number One. Especially not ones that have been thoroughly checked a couple of hours earlier.” He rubbed his temples. “I ... I suppose I should, um, write to his next of kin. It’s something good C/Os do.”

“I think they might know, sir.” It was the first thing Julia had said since the explosion. She nodded at UK-1 on the display. “His mother-”

“-works in Traffic. Of course,” said Hannah. She flinched. “His father’s on board, too. They were a family of citizens. Proud of it.”

“Were they?” Gilmore felt drained, too tired even to chastise himself for forgetting the Nichols were UK citizens. Strange: up to a few minutes ago, he could have recalled that fact without even trying. “Then I’ll call them.”

*

The curved, spinning surface of UK-1 drew nearer and their suit computers set a course for the nearest entrance. Samad had considered going to a lock at a wheel hub or on the stationery docking strake but there was just no time, no time. A hold door, 20 metres on a side, hove into view and their suit thrusters fired to match the motion of the hull.

“There,” said Samad, and they fired lines at the EVA maintenance platform hanging below the door. The lines caught and tightened and then they were spinning with UK-1. Their suits hauled them in and they climbed onto the platform.

The door to the hold had a large ‘N17’ painted on it. “
Ark Royal
, we are going in to hold N17,” said Samad.

“Hold N17, confirmed,” said Gilmore.

Samad changed to a local band. “UK-1 Maintenance, please withdraw the EVA platform for hold N17 immediately,” he said.

“Negative,” said a stranger’s voice.

“What?”

“Hold N17 is a restricted area.” The voice was smooth and confident. “Who am I speaking to?”

“Commander Samad Loonat,
Ark Royal
. We have a medical casualty, now withdraw the platform!”

“I can’t do that without authorisation from the Admiralty, Commander. Hold N17 is restricted. Please make your way to-”

“We have the king here!” Samad shouted. It was sadly obvious what was happening: UK-1 was too big and news of the accident hadn’t permeated as far as the individual in Maintenance whose job it was to keep an eye on hold N17.

“Uh, I’ll have to check ...” the voice suddenly sounded a lot less sure of itself.

Peter switched to general band. “All AIs on UK-1,” he said. “Override request. A human life is in serious danger. Please withdraw the platform to hold N17 at once.”

“Hey, you can’t-” said the voice, as the platform began to rise up into UK-1.

“Oh, shut up,” Samad snapped. “Well done, Pete.”

“You just need to know who your friends are,” Peter said.

The lights in hold N17 were down and not even the AIs would respond to a “lights on’ command. The two used their helmet lamps to find the nearest entrance and the door slid open as they approached it. A med team ran in, hoisted the king into a body capsule and ran off without even a goodbye or thank you, waving instruments over the body and plugging things into it. Peter and Samad looked at each other, suddenly feeling superfluous.

“Back to the ship, I suppose,” said Samad. He cracked his helmet and took a breath of UK-1 air.

“Adrian’s still out there,” said Peter.

Samad grimaced. “Of course. I’m sorry. We’ll bring him in-”

“Just a minute, you two.” A man stood silhouetted in the entrance to the hold, arms folded, and Peter’s heart sank. It was someone he hadn’t seen since Samad and the captain came to rescue him from the clutches of Security, waving the royal warrant that gave them authority to claim him for
Ark Royal
, and he had hoped never to have a reunion.

“Mr Leroux, how pleasant,” Samad said.

“Ah yes, Mr Loonat.” UK-1’s Security Head came closer, looking at them with naked suspicion. He wore plain clothes but four uniformed Security men stood behind him. “And Mr Kirton. I want a full report on everything that’s just happened and I’m starting with you two.”

Samad took exception to the tone. “We just busted our balls getting him in here and our friend is dead out there, so treat us with a bit of civility, hey?”

“Tough,” Leroux said. “Come with me, please.”

“Can we unsuit?” Peter said, opening his own helmet. For a moment, Leroux looked past them into the darkness of hold N17 before answering.

“Not here. Follow me.”

*

The man in the display was Gilmore’s age, perhaps a bit older, and from the resemblance was clearly Adrian Nichol’s father. His arm was round a woman who was just as clearly Adrian Nichol’s mother. The eyes of both were red and damp.

“We’re glad you called, Captain,” the man said. His voice still trembled. “Thank you for taking the time. Adrian ... we know how proud he was to be on your ship and he must have made his mark for you to speak so highly of him.”

“If there’s anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to get in touch,” Gilmore said, secure in the knowledge that there wasn’t in fact a blind thing he could do and they all knew it.

“We won’t, Captain. Thank you. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, sir.” The display cleared. Gilmore shut his eyes, sat back in his chair and breathed out slowly. The door tone to his cabin sounded. “Come.”

It was Hannah. “You’ve spoken to them? How were they?” she said.

“As well as could be expected.”

“What did you say to them?”

“All the things I’d want Joel’s C/O to say to me under similar circumstances. What is it, Number One?”

Hannah looked uncertain. “UK-1 has just certified the king as dead. They thank us for our efforts. They’ve recovered both bodies and put them in the mortuary. The signing ceremony has been postponed and the prince is on his way up to UK-1 now.”

“Oh,” Gilmore said. Hannah still seemed to be waiting for something. “What else?”

“Has it occurred to you that there are deeper issues here?” she said.

“Such as?”

“Such as, Adrian wasn’t the only one to be killed.”

“No, of course not. The king-” The full implications suddenly, finally hit him. “Oh my god. The king is dead-”

“-long live the king,” Hannah said.

*

Prince James hadn’t touched the cup of tea that someone had put into his hand. He was aware of the staff – his father’s staff, he refused to think of them as his – moving silently around in the background, anxious not to disturb their new master.

James had always wanted to be king and had made no pretence about it, but only in a very dissociated way. The few times he had actually thought about how it might come about, he had vaguely imagined there would be plenty of warning – age or illness or both would gradually take their toll on his father, telegraphing their intentions well in advance so that he could prepare for the double shock of bereavement and succession. But this! To have the mantle of king thrust upon him, so rudely, so suddenly-

And at a time like this-

He glanced around the study, stamped so firmly with the personality of the late Richard Windsor. His father’s prized book collection. The works of art. Even the carpet. All his. The palace was his. ‘F’ wheel was his. The whole of UK-1 was his. He thought, in a withdrawn and abstract way and without a trace of sentimentality, that he would trade it all to have his father back again.

There was a polite cough and he looked up from the desk. “Mr Leroux?”

Leroux stood at ease, his hands behind his back. “Sir, you told me to report-”

“Yes, yes,” James said. “What have you found?”

“One of our anti-debris lasers fired on the boat, sir. We don’t yet know how or why, I mean, the boat was moving away from us and shouldn’t have registered as a threat-”

“Yes,” James said. He was cruising on automatic: an external appearance of polite interest and still the same inner numbness.

“No visual witnesses, though the crew of
Ark Royal
were in radio contact when it happened. Two of them are on board and my people are getting statements.”

“Yes.”

“There’ll be an enquiry-”

“Yes.”

“-and-” For the first time, Leroux seemed uneasy.

“Yes?” James said, intrigued despite everything.

“Ahem. The, um, scope of the enquiry, sir-”

Leroux held his gaze for a moment too long, and James realised with a flushed amazement what the man’s problem was. He actually thought James might have had something to do with it.

And, in a tacit sort of way, he was offering his loyalty to the new monarch.

James drew himself up and looked Leroux straight in the eye. “The enquiry will be fully public,” he said. His voice shook. “Every tiny fact about this case will be made generally available. Clear?”

“Ah, yes, sir.” Leroux looked relieved. “Clear, sir.”

“That will be all, then.”

“There is one more thing-”

James sighed. He suspected he was going to hear those words a lot more in the future. His father had joked about it. Butter up the old man with inconsequentialities, he would say, and then add a “one more thing ...”

“Yes?”

“The two from
Ark Royal
, sir. Kirton and Loonat. They were bringing in the- um, your-”

“Yes,” James said. “And?”

“They gained emergency entrance to UK-1 through hold N17. The AIs let them in, Maintenance tried to keep them out-”

“What?” James bellowed. He was on his feet in a second and Leroux held up his hands, placating.

“It was a mistake, sir. A mistake. Maintenance hadn’t been told-”

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” James snorted. He sat down slowly. “Go on.”

“They were in hold N17, sir,” Leroux said, as though that explained everything.

“Oh.” James thought, still without any great interest. At that moment, a critical fault in one of UK-1’s reactors could not have elicited any great interest. “Did they see anything?”

“It was dark and they had other things on their mind, so I doubt it, but I thought you should know.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you want anything done?”

James shut his eyes. What he wanted done was for the world to go away and leave him alone. “If they didn’t see anything-” he said.

“We don’t know that, sir. They might not have noticed at the time, but they may remember something later-”

James waved a hand. “They’re good people, Mr Leroux. If they didn’t see anything, let them go.”

“Very good, sir.” Leroux looked as if he had swallowed a lemon but he left anyway. James returned to his blank contemplation of the far wall, until he was interrupted by his aide announcing a message on a certain priority code that made him sit up and take notice.

“What is it?”

“Sir.” The face and voice were of the Head of UK-1 Engineering. “I know it’s a bad time-”

James was tiring of sympathy. “Get on with it,” he said.

“Yes, sir. It’s confirmed: the field is spreading. Given enough time it could threaten hull integrity.”

“How long?”

“Within the next couple of days.”

James was not oblivious to the implications. “What will we need to do?”

“Worst case, sir? Remove the generator completely. Throw it out into space.”

“You can’t just dismantle it?”

“No, sir. It’s a sealed unit and we can’t break into it.”

“But surely we put it together in the first place.”

“We did, sir, but since then we’ve actually used it. God knows what’s been going on inside it and it’s impervious to all scanning. I do not want to open it, sir.”

“Suggestion?”

“We’ll have to jettison.”

“For the Rusties to pick up?” James said.

The Head looked impatient. “Then throw it into the sun, sir.” James frowned: he didn’t like juniors being frivolous at the best of times. “But if we can’t stop the rot then we’ll have to get rid of it. We can’t keep it on board.”

“Do it, then,” James said. “Keep me informed. Out.”

He had became aware of one of his assistants hovering in the periphery of his vision, body language radiating nervousness. It never rains but it pours, he thought. “What?”

“We’ve had a message from the Rusties, sir. Iron Run wants to know how long the ceremony should be postponed-”

James groaned. Going through with the ceremony now was the last thing he wanted to do. He hadn’t particularly been looking forward to it anyway, but at least his father would have been the one to deal with Krishnamurthy.

But now ...

His eyes lingered for a moment on a holobust of his father in an alcove. The image seemed to be looking at him and he knew what his father would want. What a king should do.

“Tell him, a day,” he said. “That’s all.”

“Very good, sire.”

“Sir!” James shouted. The man recoiled and James subsided as quickly as he had erupted. “Call me sir. Not sire. Sir.”

“Yes, um, sir.” The man bowed and withdrew as quickly as etiquette permitted.

*

The display read:

Nichol, Adrian Graeme. Born UK-1, 19/09/26. Commissioned into Royal Space Fleet 11/08/44. Graduated 19/06/47. Pilot’s licence awarded 21/06/47. Most recent posting: chief pilot and assistant engineer, HMSS
Ark Royal
, 11/03/49. Killed 24/05/49 in explosion on board
Sharman
, tender to
Ark Royal
. Probable cause of death: severe injury to head and chest area caused by explosion, followed immediately by suffocation.

Then, because the summaries had been compiled by an AI whose job it was simply to identify all linked crimes committed in a certain vicinity and list them alphabetically:

Sharman
. Boeing-Tupolev-Honda 177 Earth-orbit reusable entry vehicle, built Wuhan, East China, 06/46. Commissioned into Royal Space Fleet, 13/07/46. Refitted and designated tender to HMSS
Ark Royal
, 28/12/48. Destroyed 24/05/49 by laser shot from UK-1 turret G473 to bow fuel tanks. Tanks destroyed by exploding fuel, rupturing hull, leading to explosive decompression and death of pilot and crew.