Christopher Nuttall - The Nelson Touch

A dull thump echoed through the hull as the second shuttle landed, followed by a dull hiss that indicated the landing bay was being pressurised. James waited until it was safe, then nodded to his small party and led the way into the landing bay. They’d been told to keep the reception low-key, but that was relative. There was no way a visit from the Prime Minister of Great Britain, the Vice President of the United States and several senior military officers could go completely unremarked.

James sucked in a breath as a handful of close-protection specialists poured out of the shuttle, glancing around as if they expected assassins to be hiding in the rear of the landing bay. Not that he blamed them for being paranoid, he decided; world leaders were among the most important terrorist targets in the world, while the aliens themselves would certainly consider them legal targets. His lips quirked in droll amusement at the thought. If the aliens came after Ark Royal and her cargo of politicians, the close-protection specialists would be damn near useless.

He straightened up as the Prime Minister stepped out, followed by the Vice President. Prime Minister Gordon Bryce was a tall, strikingly handsome man, something that would have impressed James more if he hadn’t known that the politician had had his face carefully engineered to produce just the right impression on the voting public. Behind him, Vice President Louis Mayo had the same basic idea, although it was clear that he’d blurred racial traits to make himself a man for all men. The idealistic part of James wondered why people bothered with racism — in any form — when changing one’s skin colour was as easy as cutting one’s hair. His more cynical side suspected that humans had never really needed an excuse to pick on other humans.

“Welcome onboard, Prime Minister,” he said, taking a step forward. At least Bryce was a strong supporter of the military. The opposition had been calling for cuts in the long-term expansion program for decades. They’d gone remarkably quiet since Vera Cruz. “And you, Mr. Vice President.”

“Louis is fine,” the Vice President said. He had a relaxed air of informality that didn’t fool James for a moment. No one reached an elected position of such high authority without having a very sharp mind and a commendable degree of ruthlessness. “I confess I’m very interested to see your ship.”

James smiled. Ark Royal wasn’t the oldest ship still in active service, but she was definitely the oldest starship operated by a major interstellar power. She might have been outdated, she might have been as manoeuvrable as a wallowing pig, yet she had stood up to the aliens when every modern carrier that had tried to fight them had been ripped apart within seconds. And she was pretty much unique. The two American carriers that had been on a par with her had been scrapped long ago.

“I would be delighted to offer you a tour,” he replied. “If you would like to follow me?”

He gave them the sanitized tour, giving them a brief tour of the ship without showing them anything particularly sensitive. The politicians didn’t seem to notice, although they asked a number of questions that James did his best to answer. A couple of them related to the hit new series about reporters on carriers, something that made James want to roll his eyes in horror. Clearly, now their tour of alien-controlled space was over, the reporters who’d shipped on Ark Royal were telling everyone at home how brave they’d been.

“I haven’t watched an episode,” he admitted. He had no plans to do so either, not if he could avoid it. The last movie he’d watched that purported to show the Royal Navy in action had made so many errors that he’d snickered his way through the show. “But I’m sure it helped encourage recruiting for the Royal Navy.”

They wound up in the Officer’s Mess, where the cooks had prepared a small meal. There, they were joined by Admiral Smith and two of his staff, who briefly engaged the politicians in conversation while James took a moment to relax and curse the uniform designer under his breath. It seemed to be a law of nature that dress uniforms were always uncomfortable as hell, particularly when someone could not afford to show discomfort. When he was First Space Lord, James promised himself, he would have the uniform designed to be comfortable first and foremost. Looking snappy could come second.

“I was surprised that you offered no alcohol,” one of the Prime Minister’s staffers said, as the overly-long meal came to an end. “The Navy isn’t dry, is it?”

“It’s a gesture of respect to our American cousins,” James lied, smoothly. It was true enough that the Americans banned alcohol on their starships — they probably had as many problems with illicit stills as the British — but the truth was different. He didn’t want to risk encouraging Admiral Smith to start drinking again. “Besides, we will need clear heads for the briefing.”

“A sensible thought,” the First Space Lord agreed. He lifted his glass of non-alcoholic wine from Mars and cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, the King!”

There was a brief mutter as the toast was echoed, then the First Space Lord put his glass on the table and leaned forward. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “time is pressing.”

“Certainly,” the Prime Minister said. “Should we repair to the briefing room?”

James nodded, issued orders for the Officer’s Mess to be cleared, then led the way into the large briefing compartment. It had seemed too large at first; now, with Ark Royal effectively the most important starship in the navy, it was too small to host everyone who might have to attend a briefing. But there was enough room for the Prime Minister and his party.

The First Space Lord cleared his throat as soon as everyone had found a seat. “As you know, the war appears to have stalemated,” he said, briskly. “The aliens have made no attempt to expand their positions within human space, while we have been rather unsuccessful at liberating any of the star systems they have occupied. We do not believe that this period of uneasy peace will endure.”

James nodded in agreement. Humanity had been caught by surprise when the aliens first attacked, but that surprise was long gone. Every major interstellar power was converting its industry to produce supplies for the war, while working out shared protocols for combined operations against the common foe. If nothing else, the alien invasion had done wonders for humanity’s unity and technological development. There were even rumours that the human race was on the verge of a colossal breakthrough in gravity-manipulation technology.

“Furthermore, attempts to open diplomatic relationships with the aliens have failed,” the First Space Lord continued. “We know nothing about the alien society, from how they’re governed to what they want… and why the war actually started. In short, we appear committed to fighting to the bitter end.”

Admiral Smith leaned forward. “There has been no progress with the alien prisoners?”

“None,” the First Space Lord said. “Oh, the scientists tell me they’re making progress on unlocking their biology, but we haven’t been able to talk to them at all. We can’t tell if they’re deliberately refusing to talk or if we’re simply not getting the message across to them.”

He paused. “Since your cruise through the New Russia system, we’ve kept pinging spy probes into the system to keep an eye on the aliens,” he continued. “They have discovered that the aliens are massing a sizable force near the planet, including fifteen carriers and a number of ships of unknown capabilities. Intelligence believes that the aliens intend to drive on Earth. I don’t need to tell you, I think, that losing Earth would prove disastrous.”