Vanguard (Ark Royal Book 7) (20 page)

He swung his legs out of the water and hurried back to the path, passing the headset to the staffers as he walked past.  The rain was still falling, but it was slacking off and bright flickers of sunlight were burning through the clouds.  He braced himself, then hurried through the warm downpour back towards the embassy.  A handful of staffers and senior officials were already making their way into the building.

“Have coffee sent in for all of us,” he ordered Potter, as he walked into the main conference room.  “It’s going to be a long day.”

He took his seat at the head of the table and waited for the table to fill.  No one had disagreed with the need to set up an embassy on Tadpole Prime, but there had been thousands of arguments over just who should be represented on the planet.  In the end, it had been decided that there would only be one embassy, with a dozen ambassadors.  Henry considered himself the senior ambassador, but he suspected the others thought he was merely the first amongst equals.  Shaking his head at the thought, he opened his terminal and started to read the files as the staffers brought coffee.  It was clear, judging from the attached reports, that it had been a pair of
human
starships that had discovered the new race.

They didn’t mention that
, he thought, amused. 
They’re more like us than they let on
.

He smiled at the thought, then sat upright as the room was sealed.  Eleven ambassadors, four military attaches and two senior staffers looked back at him.  He was mildly surprised that none of them had started accessing the files, although it was quite possible that
someone
within the embassy had given his superiors some advance warning.  The problem with having a multinational staff, even on an alien homeworld, was that they had divided loyalties.

“You can review the files later, but the short version is that a pair of
human
starships have discovered a third intelligent race,” he said, bluntly.  “This race is spacefaring and may - I say
may
- pose a potential threat.”

The French ambassador leaned forward.  “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” Henry said.  “As you can see” - he brought up the starchart - “the newcomers are located on the other side of Tadpole space, the unknown waters.  The survey ships analysed the data as best as they could, but they're unsure if the unknowns have any awareness or understanding of the tramlines.  However, as they clearly have standard drives, they
should
be aware of the potentials.”

“Unless they just overlooked them,” one of the military officers offered.  “We overlooked quite a few applications of gravimetric technology ourselves.”

Henry nodded.  “As we are unsure if this race poses any threat, the Tadpoles intend to make first contact as soon as possible,” he said.  “They have formally invoked our obligations under the Contact Treaty to request both technological and military support.  I intend to send messages to the border guard, requesting a redeployment, but I also intend to take a number of experts from the embassy and join the Tadpole mission.”

It took a moment for the implications to sink in.  “You intend to go
personally
?”

“They need a senior representative, someone authorised by the Great Powers,” Henry said, simply.  He
did
have authority to speak for Earth, although there were so many caveats that his power was actually quite limited.  “I’m probably the best choice for mission commander.”

“And you want to get away from the embassy for a while,” the American Ambassador joked.

Henry shrugged.  Going on a Tadpole ship was one thing, but boarding a Royal Navy starship would mean spending hours explaining that he was no longer part of the Royal Family, even if he
had
kept the name.  But really, what choice did he have?  He
was
the best person for the job, certainly the most experienced when it came to contacting alien races.  He’d been among the first humans to actually
speak
to the Tadpoles.

Another military officer leaned forward.  “Should we prep the embassy for destruction?”

“I don’t think there’s any immediate threat,” Henry said.  He could understand why the Tadpoles were jumpy, but there was no evidence the mystery aliens had advanced towards Tadpole space.  “Still, best to review our procedures.  The Tadpoles nearly reached Earth during the first month of the war, after all.”

He sighed, inwardly, as they began to review the files.  In all the excitement - and it
was
exciting - he’d forgotten one very simple fact.  How the hell was he going to explain his departure to his daughters?  Janelle would understand - she was a military officer, even if she was technically a reservist - but his daughters?  Victoria was eight, old enough to understand that her father was leaving, too young to understand that he would be back.  Hell, she’d spent time crying whenever one of her parents had left the room.

I’ll have to go
, he told himself. 
And all I can do is promise I’ll be back
.

Chapter Nineteen

This was not such a bright idea
, George thought, as she dressed for the fight.  It wasn't much; a shirt, a sports bra, a pair of shorts ... neither would provide much protection if she took a hit.  She couldn't help feeling sick as the hour drew closer. 
But it has to be done
.

She swallowed, hard.  Challenging Fraser directly had seemed such a smart idea, before she’d actually gone and done it.  The logic was still good, she was sure, but she’d humiliated him in front of the other middies.  Trapping him in an untenable position - unable to refuse the challenge, unable to demand something in exchange - had only made him mad.  In hindsight, she understood - too late - what her tutors had meant when they’d talked about the dangers of death ground.  Trapping an enemy was only a good idea if the enemy couldn't fight their way out of the trap, or maul you badly as you killed them.

You could still back out
, a voice said, at the back of her head. 
You don’t have to go through with it
.

She shook her head, despite the temptation.  Unlike Fraser, she had no position to lose, but if she backed out no one would ever respect her again.  They’d see her as an empty-headed braggart and they’d be right, the silly little girl who’d allowed her mouth to get her into trouble.  She checked her appearance in the mirror, wishing suddenly that she was allowed boxing gloves - she could have slipped something solid into them - and then opened the hatch.  Honoraria was standing outside.

“I need to search you,” Honoraria said.  “Hold your arms above your head, please.”

George scowled as Honoraria ran her hands over George’s shirt and shorts.  “What is the point of this?”

“The fight is bare-knuckled,” Honoraria said, as she stepped backwards.  “Neither of you are allowed weapons, apart from your hands and feet.”

“Oh,” George said.  Good thing she
hadn't
tried to slip something into her clothing, as scanty as it was.  “Are there any actual rules?”

Honoraria gave her a sharp look.  “You didn't bother to look them up before throwing down the challenge?”

She went on before George could answer.  “You fight with your hands and feet until one of you yields or is knocked out,” she added.  “Try not to kill him, but otherwise don’t hold back and don’t have any illusions about fighting a fair fight.  If he gives you a shot at his balls, take it.”

“I don’t want to think about touching his balls,” George protested.

“Then you better
had
start thinking about it,” Honoraria snapped.  “I
know
Fraser; he’s tough, fast and very strong.  You let him get you in a grip and you’re fucked - and not in a good way.  Don’t even
think
about trying to trade blows because he has a colossal advantage.  Get in there - go for the eyes, go for the balls - and keep moving.”

She shook her head.  “How much unarmed combat training did you take?”

“Just the academy classes,” George admitted.

“You’re fucked,” Honoraria said.  “Fraser’s been sparring with some of the marines, for heaven’s sake.  And he survived the experience.”

George swallowed.  “Shit.”

“Quite,” Honoraria said.  She glanced down at her wristcom.  “It’s time.”

She turned and walked through the hatch.  George hesitated, her legs refusing to move properly, and then forced herself to follow Honoraria.  She’d never been in the boxing ring before - some of the crewmen boxed, but the marines tended to keep themselves to themselves - yet she didn't feel like looking around.  Fraser was standing at the other end of the compartment, wearing nothing more than a loincloth.  She couldn't help thinking that he looked like a barbarian hero out of a comic book.

“Well,” Fraser said.  He eyed her, coldly.  She had to fight the urge to just stumble backwards.  “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” George said.  She’d managed to get herself into this mess; if she couldn't win, she could at least make sure he knew he’d been in a fight.  She tried not to look at the muscles rippling on his arms as he stepped over the line on the deck and into the ring.  “I’m ready.”

“Good,” Fraser said.  He nodded to Nathan, who was standing beside four of the other midshipmen.  The remainder of the chamber was deserted.  “Nathan will blow the whistle once we’re at opposite sides of the ring.  From that moment on, if you want to stop, all you have to do is throw yourself to your knees and beg for mercy.”

“Yes, sir,” George said.

Her legs felt like jelly, but she somehow managed to step over the line and enter the ring, taking up her position.  Fraser studied her for a long moment - he was examining her muscles, she reasoned - before swaggering over to the other side.  George braced herself as best as she could, trying to recall lessons she’d barely mastered, as Fraser nodded impatiently to Nathan.  George’s friend gave her a grim look, then blew the whistle.

Fraser met her eyes, trying to stare her down.  George felt a sudden flicker of confidence, recalling high-class afternoon teas she’d been forced to endure.  The family’s elderly relatives might have had only a single brain cell between them, but they practically latched on to any hint of improper behaviour and attacked.  He might be able to beat her to within an inch of her life, she thought, yet he couldn't psyche her out.  Lying with a straight face was one of the skills she’d mastered as a very young girl.

There was a pause, then Fraser came forward.  He wasn't covering himself, George noted, but it was clear that he didn't need to watch his back. She darted forward, trying to win herself some room, then ducked back as he threw at ugly punch at her head.  Maybe she was faster than him, but she doubted it was enough.  And yet, there was an opportunity ...

She threw a punch of her own, realising the danger a fraction of a second too late.  Fraser caught her arm, twisted her and practically
threw
her entire body right across the ring.  It was all she could do to land properly, without coming down so hard the fight ended there and then; she lunged to the side as Fraser leapt at her, kicking out with his foot.  He would never have dared try that against a trained opponent, but he’d probably scanned her file and knew her weaknesses.  Unarmed combat had never been one of her skills.

He turned to face her, keeping his fists up in a boxing pose.  George clenched her own fists, then moved to the side as he hurled a punch at her throat, throwing a jab of her own at his face.  He lifted his arm to block the blow, grunting when she struck him, then slapped out at her chest.  The blow stung, but didn't do any serious harm.  Fraser snorted and turned again, punching out at her.  George jumped backwards, looking for another opportunity to land a blow.  She thought she was faster than him, but he was fast enough himself for that not to matter.  Fraser paced her, then darted forward.  George couldn't move quickly enough to keep him from grabbing hold, spinning her around and hurling her to the deck.  She rolled over just in time to keep him from landing on her, jumping upwards and landing a punch right on his nose.  It didn't break, she thought, but she was sure he’d
felt
it.

Fraser growled, bloody murder written in his eyes even as blood dripped from his nose and splashed on the deck.  George almost broke then, almost threw herself to her knees, but something inside her refused to let her give up.  He hurled himself forward, faster than she would have believed possible, and ploughed right into her, shoving her back down to the deck.  George cried out in pain as she hit the ground, feeling his hands slamming down on her chest, just above her breasts, as they made their way to her throat.  She clawed at him, trying to hit his groin or his eyes; he caught her wrists and shoved them back to the deck, holding them above her head with one hand while the other held her throat.

“Yield,” he growled.

George tried to struggle, but his grip was too tight.  The weight of his body, pressing down on her, made it impossible to move.  She couldn't even draw up her knee to kick him; he simply knew, all too well, just how to hold her down.  And the grip on her throat was tightening ...

“Yield,” he repeated.

Panic boiled at the corner of her mind.  He wouldn't actually kill her, would he?  But she’d provoked him, and she’d probably ruined what was left of his career, and ... she refused to submit.  If she could survive a depressurisation chamber at the academy ... but a depressurisation chamber had never glared at her with such hatred.  The smart move was to give up, and yet ...”

“Fuck you,” she managed.  Her voice sounded odd in her ears, as if there was something wrong with it.  “I
won’t
.”

“You’re beaten,” Fraser insisted.  His weight shifted, slightly.  “You cannot win!”

“Fuck you,” George said, again.  It was growing harder to breath.  “I ...”

He lowered his head until their eyes met.  She stared into the face of hatred, into the face of someone she was
sure
would kill her ... and yet she refused to submit.  Her body was aching in pain - she had a nasty feeling she had a handful of broken bones - but she wasn't about to give in.  They stared at each other for a long chilling moment, then he let go of her throat and rolled off her.  George stared at him, one hand moving to rub her throat.  It hurt, but there didn't look to be any permanent damage.  Indeed, she was starting to think that she might have a great many bruises, yet nothing was actually broken.

Fraser touched his nose, gingerly.  “You didn't break.”

George stared at him.  There was something odd in his voice too, something ...
respect
?

She forced herself to sit upright.  There were nasty bruises on her chest and bare legs, and her shirt had been badly torn, but otherwise she was intact.  And yet, he could have killed her, or won the challenge by beating her head into the deck until she blacked out.  It was hard to move, but she didn't want to be too close to him if he changed his mind.

“I could kill you, but I couldn't beat you,” Fraser said.  He sounded almost as though each word was torn from an unwilling mouth.  “Congratulations.”

He rose and held out a hand.  George took it, feeling her body protest as he helped her to her feet.  She honestly wasn’t sure if she should go to sickbay or not - or, for that matter, if Fraser should go.  Was his nose broken or was he merely having a nosebleed?  The pain in her hand suggested she’d hit him quite hard ...

You’re dazed
, she realised.

“Help her to sickbay,” Fraser ordered.  It took George a moment to realise that Nathan had stepped over the line and come to join them.  “I’ll reorganise the duty shifts so she won’t have anything until tomorrow afternoon.”

“Yes, sir,” Nathan said.

George forced herself to walk upright, despite the throbbing pain, as he helped her to leave the gym.  She was damned if she was collapsing now ... blood was staining her shirt; she glanced at it blearily, trying to determine where she was bleeding, before realising that it wasn't
her
blood.  Fraser had been on top of her, hadn't he?

“I don’t know if you won,” Nathan said, as they stumbled down the corridor, “but I don’t think you lost either.”

“Yeah,” George managed.  It was suddenly very hard to stay upright.  “There has to be an easier way to earn respect.”

***

The midshipmen, for whatever reason, hadn't bothered to disable the monitors in the gym.  It should have been beyond them, Susan knew, but she would have been surprised if someone who had been in the navy for as long as Midshipman Fraser
didn't
know how to evade the watching surveillance recorders where necessary.  She’d watched, torn between the urge to intervene and the certain knowledge that events had to play out, as the two midshipmen had fought.

“He wanted her to submit,” the Boatswain noted.  “It would have been straightforward to knock her out.”

Susan nodded, feeling a flicker of pride in her youngest midshipwoman.  Demanding respect was futile, but once it was earned ... she had the feeling that Midshipwoman Fitzwilliam wasn't going to have any problems with Fraser in future, even though she’d technically lost the bout.  Fraser had seen the real
her
.